


Life on Mars: The Football AU; Episode 1: Newcastle United

by amproof



Series: Life on Mars: Football AU [1]
Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Football | Soccer, M/M, Other, Time Travel, Transgender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-11
Updated: 2009-07-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 14:19:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1120876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amproof/pseuds/amproof
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Life on Mars.  With football.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by an idea [](http://mikes-grrl.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://mikes-grrl.livejournal.com/)**mikes_grrl** put forth awhile ago wishing to see our boys recast

Title: Life on Mars: The Football AU; Episode 1: Newcastle United  
Chapter: 1/6  
Author: [](http://amproof.livejournal.com/profile)[**amproof**](http://amproof.livejournal.com/)  
Wordcount: 3151 this chapter, 24,936 overall  
Disclaimer: Life on Mars is property of Kudos. Any real persons who might appear in this series do so in fictional incarnations. Characters created for this AU are mine and are not meant to resemble real people.  
Rating: Brown Cortina overall for language, sexual situations (het and slash), moments of peril  
Notes: Inspired by an idea [](http://mikes-grrl.livejournal.com/profile)[**mikes_grrl**](http://mikes-grrl.livejournal.com/) put forth awhile ago wishing to see our boys recast  
in the world of professional soccer/football. My goal is to rewrite each episode within this world. I will be creating a lot of original characters to round out the teams, but real players may appear/garner mention, however their roles will rarely be more substantial than the real characters who are portrayed on the actual show. As much as possible, I have remained loyal to the match fixtures of the 1973-74 season, though at times plotting made that impossible.  Finally, huge thanks to my beta [](http://karaokegal.livejournal.com/profile)[**karaokegal**](http://karaokegal.livejournal.com/) and my brit-pick/footie watch/northern way explainers [](http://lady-t-220.livejournal.com/profile)[**lady_t_220**](http://lady-t-220.livejournal.com/) and [](http://siluria.livejournal.com/profile)[**siluria**](http://siluria.livejournal.com/). I'm sure I've forgotten something, so if you have questions, just ask.

Summary: It's Life on Mars. With football.

_Manchester City versus Newcastle United with a final score of one-nil to Newcastle. The winning goal came in the last minute of the game when the Magpie's Number 7, Fraser, took possession from Roy, took it round Andersen, Johnson, and Boles, and, in an astonishing display of teamwork, passed it to his teammate Parnicky, who landed it in goal._

_Manchester City will next play Everton to be broadcast live on Sky Sport a week from today._

Sam muted the television in his office. He turned his back to the newsreel of Newcastle United's players embracing and jumping around. Laying the remote control on his desk, he walked over to the minibar on the opposite side of the vast office, past the full-sized white leather couch and black coffee table with glass top, and over to the window which looked out onto the pitch some ten stories below. A soft cough interrupted his thoughts, but he poured with a steady hand and continued ignoring the player standing in front of his desk.

They lost. That was the long and short of it. Never mind that City was the better team, statistically. Statistics, evidently, did not matter when players did not do as they were told.

Sam said as much as he stood looking out the window, addressing himself to the reflection of his star striker. Mark looked unsuitably non-contrite, still wearing his City shorts and a black and white jersey gained in a post-game trade with Parnicky.

"What part of 'steady and consistent' did you not get?" Sam held his wrist perpendicular to the floor, glass in hand, and kept any hint of his rage contained to a back and forth snapping motion that caused the surface of the liquid to shimmer.

"I saw a chance and I took it."

"There's a reason I am the manager. I can see things from a broad scope, a scope which you do not have in play." He turned around.

"This is a good one, Sam. Maybe we ought to bring the other lads in and let them have a listen, too."

If Sam were getting a tearing down, he'd be fidgeting, rubbing his neck, shame bleeding off him. None of that from Mark. No, he was facing Sam full on, but there was nothing confrontational about him. He was almost smiling, like he found the whole thing vastly amusing.

"Mark..." Sam set his glass down, the clipped sound of glass hitting wood substituting for emotions that he would not express.

"What?"

"If you can't do as you're told on the pitch, I don't want you on the team."

"Are you threatening me?" The smile disappeared, lightness replaced with a darker incredulity. Sam carefully schooled his own expression so he wouldn't betray a sense of victory for breaking through Mark's careless demeanor. He slapped the back of his hand into his palm as he responded:

"Team. Work. Mark."

"You may just get your wish."

"Oh? You going to start toeing the line?"

"I'm getting offers." Again with the insouciance.

"You're not. You wouldn't leave, anyway." Mark had to know that he had it better at City than he would at any other team in the Premier League.

"I am. So you better watch yourself, Tyler. Or you'll be minus your best striker before you know it."

"My best striker is useless to me if he can't follow directions. Go apologise to your teammates for making them drop a rank. I've got work to do."

"Sam..." The stubbornness in Mark's voice softened and he sighed.

Sam, though, kept himself hard. "Do I look like I want to talk to you right now?"

Mark seemed about to speak. Sam turned his back on him again. A moment later, he heard the door open and shut. He walked around to the front of his desk, pulled the chair over and sat down. He was soon immersed in recreating the game on paper. Every move parsed, every decision critiqued. He knew it was ridiculous to blame one person for the loss, but it was difficult to avoid when that person had done _exactly the opposite_ of what he'd been told.

He stayed late—seemed all he did anymore was lose track of time (a loss the big bosses encouraged), and as the sun fell, Sam sent his secretary home. He knew he was waiting partly to see if Jesper Johansen, the club president, would come down and speak to him about the loss. In a way, it was spectacular. City was favoured all around—in placement, in player strength; Sam was the better manager, yet that had all combusted today, and they had been slaughtered. Absolutely annihilated.

By eight p.m., no one from upstairs had visited him with pitchforks or consolation. He figured he was safe to leave. It was raining as he drove home. He ran from his parking spot to the door of his apartment building with a newspaper held over his head. The night watchman greeted him. The man never watched football, so his greeting never wavered in cheerfulness, no matter how sullenly Sam attempted to march past him. Today, he was able to edge by without conversation because the watchman was entertaining a tenant's child and neither did more than smile at him before returning their attention to the small screen that showed video from the camera stationed outside the building.

Sam found the door to his flat unlocked. He pushed it open and entered slowly, looking around for any signs of disturbance. He spotted Maya's coat hanging up in the foyer. He breathed easy and put his own next to it. He closed the door and listened. She had turned the radio on, and underneath the light jazz (which he hated, and she knew he hated), he could hear the shower running.

"Maya?" He pushed the bathroom door open. A waft of hot air exited. He could just make out the shadow of her form amidst the steam through the glass of the shower door.

"Out in a minute. Why don't you start dinner?" Her voice lilted back to him. He headed for the kitchen, smiling. Considering, what was going on with Mark, he hadn't been sure if she would show. She might have chosen to stay home and coddle hurt feelings.

Or this could be a last hurrah, if Mark really was going to take a transfer. Sam didn't see how he could lose Mark and keep Maya. Package deal, those two, as much as he tried to deny it and keep them separate.

He fired up the hobs. The skillet and saucepan were already on it, ready and waiting to do their duty, just as Sam expected his players to be. He poured brown rice and water into the saucepan and began skinning chicken breasts. He wasn't sure how long she had been in the shower, but knew that once the water stopped he would still have twenty minutes, so he took his time getting the spices right and rubbing the cumin and sage into the chicken. Once they were on the skillet, he washed his hands and set the table with the good dishes. And the nice candlesticks. He paused over the selection of wine, wavering between the 1998 and 2004 vintage. He opted, finally, for the fuller body of 2004.

Even though he had heard nothing by the end of the day, there was still a chance that his job would be in danger after the day's loss. He hoped the bosses upstairs could see that he had a vision and would lead the team in the right direction if they were only patient. He had shown them his charts comparing player statistics to various other factors, from competing players to the number of times a corner ball was deflected to the likelihood of the goalie missing the ball if he dove for it versus stood dead centre. They had listened to him and then said that the only thing that mattered was a result.

Well, he'd given them one. Sad for him that it was the wrong one. Still, he'd done well as a manager over the last few years. And every club deserved a bad day. He tried to tell himself that if they were going to sack him, they'd have done it before he left the office. Unless it involved a special meeting of the Board... His mouth went dry.

He’d grown up a United fan and had played on their under-14s squad. The last game he went to with his father had been United vs. City, and he still remembered wearing his red and white scarf and his dad lifting him up so he could cheer. He even got a pie out of it. He had mimicked his father by drying his fingers on his trousers, staining them with beef-smelling streaks.

City was all right; they recruited him to their under 16's and he stayed with them long enough to be moved up to the professional squad. He bounced around a bit on the pitch, but he was always most comfortable as a centre-half. It was a position from which he could see everything. He played for City until he was 24. Then the urge to see the world took him, and he transferred to Roma, where they played a totally different type of football, one that suited him, though it took some getting used to being around other players who saw the game as he did, as exercises in mentality and precision, rather than speed and brute force.

That was the difference—whereas English football was still in large part heading the ball and plowing forward, the Europeans used their heads for thinking, as he was told time and time again in the bistros afterwards.

When Sam returned to England, he was 26 and determined to pass on his new outlook to anyone who would listen. He knew he wasn't the first to favour this way of approaching the game. It was a growing movement with its share of detractors amongst the old boys, but he had charts and he believed. Football could be more than a pastime for thugs. If they would just give it a chance, it could be beautiful again. An injury sent him to a non-league club for a year to regain his form. He did a degree in football management at university, studying at night and playing during the day. Upon returning to the premiership, he played for Liverpool one season and then Port Vale because he wanted to try a smaller club—that was the excuse he gave, but he was eyeing Manchester United all the while.

It was his first club, still his first love, even if he did associate it with his father. Perhaps because he did. He asked his old manager from the under 14s to put feelers out to see if they would want him. They did, but on the day he was to sign, City came through with a better offer. Upwards of ten million pounds a year, a two million pound signing bonus, the captaincy, and he would be made player assistant manager. It was not common to be given both roles, but he had kept friends there who knew that he wanted to manage one day, and this was a step in the right direction. At thirty-two he retired from play to become the youngest manager City had ever seen. One of his first actions was to sign Mark, grabbing him away from Spurs, just as City had grabbed Sam (twice)from United.

And, with Mark came Maya. And with Maya went Sam's heart. Easy as (complicated as) that.

Oh, sure, it was all a bit of pretend. He knew it, but he didn't hurt for playing along. He didn't see a future in the relationship, and he knew she didn't either. Better that way, for both of them. If not better, then easier. He looked up as she came into the room.

"Hey."

"Hiya," she said. She leaned on the black marble-topped island that separated the kitchen from the living room. "You were out late."

Sam decided not to say that he was waiting around to see if he would be sacked. "I didn't know you'd be here."

"Thought I'd chance it." She came around the island. She wore a barely-there silk robe the colour of the sky that tied at the front with a thick ribbon. Beneath it, he saw the shadow of a brassiere. Her hair cascaded around her shoulders, framing her face and her soft, rouged lips. She touched his arm. "Hope that's all right."

"I'm glad you did." He leaned forward and kissed her, She twisted his shirt collar, pulling him forward. Sam smiled, his lips stretching over his teeth and stifling his moan as she mouthed his neck, the sensitive skin pulled taut as he bent to her gentle pressure. He grabbed her leg and she lifted it to wrap around his waist. He slid his hand up her thigh, allowing himself a sigh of appreciation for the smooth power of aerodynamic muscle as he passed over it. She twisted towards him, craned up, and captured his mouth with her own.

She brushed fingertips over his arms, calling up goose pimples with the almost imperceptible touch. And then he was turning her around and pushing the robe up, draping it over her back, and scrambling to open his trousers one-handed while the other kept her robe out of the way. "Move the dishes." He barely hissed out the command before they fell, together, onto the island. A wooden salad bowl toppled to the floor. It clattered uselessly. It shocked them, and for a second they turned, staring at it. Then she began to laugh, and he grinned and felt a rush of happiness.

"I love you," he said, and immediately cursed himself for succumbing to the moment so completely. There was too much baggage in the word—four lettered abbreviation for commitment, loyalty, honesty, acceptance. He hoped she wouldn't call him on it, but she was cleverer than he was. If she wanted to, she could make him spell out every definition as it applied to their relationship until each lie stood out like a vein.

In reply, she reached backwards and tugged his hips towards her. He pressed his chest against her back, kissed her neck, and pushed first his fingers, coated in olive oil hastily grabbed—an advantage to screwing where it was kept--and then, when she pulsed as if she would take his hand if he offered it, he took his fingers away and pushed himself inside her. He sucked his lip over his teeth in response to the close heat of her body. His eyes wandered up the indented spine, along her arm, stretched above her head, and a hand, long fingers flexing and curling. "Sam," she said, and he sank further into her, collapsing down to clasp his lips to her shoulder. He would never get over how good she felt. Always so good.

Behind him, the chicken began to burn. He shut out the smell as she pushed backwards, trembling beneath him. He flattened his hand on her stomach. Smooth, hard, muscles stretched and shifted under his fingers, reminding him of her strength and litheness. She was babbling, and he soaked it in, every nonsensical word. He came inside her, two sharp thrusts and a sigh; precautions no longer deemed necessary between them, not since the talk and promise six months earlier. She grabbed his hand and tried to pull it between her legs because as ever, she was not yet finished, but he resisted, switching the grip so he was the one manipulating her, and pushed her hand down and whispered to her, rubbed his fingers against her ass, as she stood and almost fell backwards against him, absorbing the dirty sounds he breathed—not words, years on the pitch and in the locker room had not scrubbed him of his Protestant upbringing—as her elbow wagged at her side, giving indication of what her hand was doing, though he was not looking there, too occupied with sucking on her neck until she gasped. He peeled himself away from her warm skin as she reached out and turned the stove off. The click reminded him where he was—in his kitchen, a few inches from a ruined dinner, and he turned away, almost sheepish for forgetting about it himself.

He pulled a few paper towels off the kitchen rod, and they cleaned themselves up in silence.

"That was new," Maya said.

Sam picked up the salad bowl. "Not the most sanitary thing we've done. Should probably not use that olive oil again."

Maya laughed. She smoothed her hair and shook out the robe to untwist it. Then she looked at Sam with a soft, gentle gaze. "Are you all right?"

He nodded.

"Can we talk?"

That was the last thing he wanted to do. He poked the chicken. "I think I can save this."

"Sam. There’s something we need to talk about. She came up behind him and put her head against his back. "I'm taking a club up on their offer."

Sam sighed and stepped aside. "Don't do that."

"What?"

"Don't talk about football when you're done up like that."

" _Done up_? Like you specifically asked me to be? How's this?" She reached up and gripped her hair. It came off in her hand. "Better?"

"Can't we just have a quiet night in? Please?" Sam wanted to look away—he still hated to let the illusion go; it was easy to keep it up when Maya and Mark transformed out of his sights, But when the wig came off in front of him, it was a hell of a lot harder to keep himself convinced that he was manager to one and lovers with the other. He forced himself to hold her--his-- gaze.

"Yes. After we talk about this. I've been given an offer to transfer. Frankly, Sam, I'm thinking seriously about it." Mark clutched the wig as he spoke, reminding Sam that the softness of Maya's face was an illusion created by the way the wig caressed her cheekbones. It sickened him to look at it, dangling from Mark's hand like a dead thing. Sam snatched it away.

"You don't know what you're doing." He stared down at the thing in his hand. It was made from human hair, matched perfectly to Mark's colouring. Now that he had it, he didn't know what to do with it. It felt different without her; the strands no longer natural. He tossed it onto the counter. It lay there, unassuming, like a small, sleeping animal.

"I know enough."

"Who's made the offer?"

"Newcastle."

"Newc... Oh you are joking me. Oh that's bloody brilliant, that is. Is that why you were an idiot at the game today? Trying to throw it?"

"I'm not even going to respond to that."

Sam snorted. It was cruel, he knew, and he knew that Mark would never do that, but still; awfully convenient, wasn't it?

"What's so funny? You think I'm not worth a good offer?"

"You're worth more than they could be giving you. Jesus, Ma—" He wavered, uncertain what to call the person standing beside him, now that the wig was off but the feminine robe remained. Go with the hair, he finally decided, and gave it a name, and a sex. "Mark—Colin Raimes's club? You're not serious."

"They might not be on the level of City in your view..." Mark was all business now, and Sam responded in kind. His mind whirled, sometimes, when he thought of how strange his life had become since meeting Mark and Maya. He tried not to think about anything he couldn't graph.

"Well, we've never had our _entire club_ involved in a doping scandal, if that's the level you mean."

"That was two years ago. They took care of it." Mark brushed past him and busied himself getting a glass of water.

"Yeah? Then why is Raimes still running things over there? He went from the courtroom right back to the pitch."

"Proven not guilty, wasn't he?"

"He put two of their backs in the hospital for a week and left a sixteen year old nearly dead. And you want to go to them."

"That was never proven. Could have been anything that made those players sick; you don't know that Raimes was supplying them." Mark drained the glass in one go.

"Right. Excuse me. Raimes is a bloody saint."

"He's got passion, Sam. He loves the game. You remember that feeling? Of playing because of the rush, the sound of the crowd, the feeling when your foot connected with the ball? Do you even like football anymore?"

"There is more to football than acting like an overgrown five year old."

"Right. Your ruddy statistics. I know. Do I want to ask how I'm doing on that?"

"You're doing fine, Mark. Always are, aren't you?" They had moved, almost without realising, around the kitchen island, and Sam now found himself standing behind his couch, slapping it with a closed fist.

"Don't see you trying too hard to keep me around, though, do I?" Mark grabbed his hand. "Stop. You'll bruise the leather. God knows you wouldn't want that."

Sam pulled his hand away.

"You aren't going anywhere. City is your dream, Mark. Everything you need is right here."

"I wouldn't be too sure about that."

"Do your new Magpies mates know what you do in your spare time?"

"You mean dressing up for my boyfriend who won't accept that he's a poof?"

"You were dressing up before I met you. You were dressing up when I met you, as I recall."

"I was dressing up when you met _her_. And I'm still dressing up whenever you want, Tyler."

"Don't call me 'Tyler'."

"Why? Too close to the pitch for you? Not feminine enough? You're the manager of a Premier League club. If you want to fuck a real fanny, you shouldn't have any trouble finding one. Even poor men get laid, Sam."

"I don't mind saying that I'm..." He stopped himself and shook the thought away. There were more important subjects at hand than whether or not he could face up to a queer identity. "If you want to transfer, go ahead. But you just remember, I warned you. Other clubs aren't as open-minded as City. Not so welcoming. You won't have the lads around to watch out for you anymore."

"I've never needed the lads. I can fend for myself."

"Sure. But are you going to be happy about it?"

"I reckon I'll manage." Mark shrugged. For a moment he seemed almost embarrassed.

Sam felt a little of the emotion soften him as well. "Look, you want to go? I can wrap up the food for you."

Mark stepped towards him, conciliatory, but Sam flinched when Mark put his arms around his neck. "Can't even touch me unless I'm done up, can you?" Mark's arms dropped.

"Do you want the food or not?"

"I'm not hungry anymore. Besides, you already said the chicken was ruined."

"Mark?"

"What?"

"Make sure you have the team medic sign off on your final physical before you go. Wouldn't want anything interfering with your leaving."

"Already did."

Sam watched silently as Mark pulled the wig back on, and put on his coat, which was long enough to cover the robe, and walked out, shoes in hand.


	2. Life on Mars: The Football AU; Episode 1: Newcastle United

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Life on Mars. With football.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by an idea [](http://mikes-grrl.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://mikes-grrl.livejournal.com/)**mikes_grrl** put forth awhile ago wishing to see our boys recast

Title: Life on Mars: The Football AU; Episode 1: Newcastle United  
Chapter: 2/6  
Author: [](http://amproof.livejournal.com/profile)[**amproof**](http://amproof.livejournal.com/)  
Wordcount: 5167 this chapter, 24,936 overall  
Disclaimer: Life on Mars is property of Kudos. Any real persons who might appear in this series do so in fictional incarnations. Characters created for this AU are mine and are not meant to resemble real people.  
Rating: Brown Cortina overall for language, sexual situations (het and slash), moments of peril  
Notes: Inspired by an idea [](http://mikes-grrl.livejournal.com/profile)[**mikes_grrl**](http://mikes-grrl.livejournal.com/) put forth awhile ago wishing to see our boys recast  
in the world of professional soccer/football. My goal is to rewrite each episode within this world. I will be creating a lot of original characters to round out the teams, but real players may appear/garner mention, however their roles will rarely be more substantial than the real characters who are portrayed on the actual show. As much as possible, I have remained loyal to the match fixtures of the 1973-74 season, though at times plotting made that impossible.  Finally, huge thanks to my beta [](http://karaokegal.livejournal.com/profile)[**karaokegal**](http://karaokegal.livejournal.com/) and my brit-pick/footie watch/northern way explainers [](http://lady-t-220.livejournal.com/profile)[**lady_t_220**](http://lady-t-220.livejournal.com/) and [](http://siluria.livejournal.com/profile)[**siluria**](http://siluria.livejournal.com/). I'm sure I've forgotten something, so if you have questions, just ask.

Summary: It's Life on Mars. With football.

Previously: [1.1](http://amproof.livejournal.com/347064.html#cutid2)

 

 

Mark didn't turn up at training the next morning, so Sam sat his side down and told them that Mark was considering his options and taking some personal time. As for the rest of them, they were going to buckle down, reformat, and when Mark got his head sorted, he'd be back. He asked if anyone had questions. No one did. They sat quietly, looking over his head, avoiding his eyes. Chambers, the team captain, took over once Sam finished, and ushered a slew of confused players out to the pitch for warm-ups. Once they were gone, Sam turned around and saw they had not been avoiding his gaze, but rather watching the television that was muted above him—a television with a news ticker running along the bottom that announced Mark's early morning signing with Newcastle United. Sam cursed and flung his water bottle at the waste bin.

He missed.

The rest of the day wasn't much better. He met with the club president to discuss replacements for Mark. It didn't feel right talking about it before Mark's leaving had a chance to sink in. However, hearing Jesper talk, it seemed that it was only sudden to Sam. Apparently everyone else had known that the transfer was imminent.

"Raimes approached me three months ago," Jesper said.

"Why wasn't I told?"

"Mark asked me not to. He wanted to tell you himself. I know you two are close, so..."

" _Were_ close."

"Sam."

"This is a business, sir. You should have told me."

"I know it's a business, Sam. I run it, remember?"

"Of course. I'm sorry."

Jesper produced a folder of clippings. "We've developed some prospects. Have a look."

Sam took the folder, but did not open it. "There are a few from our junior team we might consider."

"Whatever you think best. I leave the decision to you, pending board approval, naturally."

"Sure." Sam waited. When Jesper did not say anything more, he tucked the folder under his arm and left Jesper's office.

In his own office, Sam sat on the couch and laid the pictures out, arranging them by league and club. There were a fair number of European internationals, a few local boys, and one American. No one caught his eye. He pulled his laptop over and started researching their stats. Finally, he pushed it aside, and went over to the bar to pour himself a drink. Mark might have told him before now. Surely he couldn't have intended that Sam look like a bloody fool in front of his side, going on about how Mark would be back when everyone else knew he was long gone.

Sam gave himself a refill. Mark wasn't vindictive like this. He had no reason to be. Their relationship had always been friendly. No, he'd have told. Mark was a brave one, would have to be to turn up at the Christmas party as he had, as her. They'd all thought it was a joke at first; even Sam had joined in the ass-patting, but the way she—even then he thought of the creation Mark had made as a separate person, a woman unquestionably—had looked at them, as if she knew exactly what she was doing, it caused them all to back off. Anders, one of the forwards, had asked Maya to dance before the comedy was gone completely, and in the midst of that dance, Sam had seen their bodies slide together, as if an understanding had been reached that this was not a joke but something unalterably real. He had been jealous enough to cut in on the next one and hook his hands behind her neck. Under the swell of Etta James, Sam asked Maya to come home with him.

No one mentioned the party after that, or said a bad word to Mark. In a way, some of them became more open with their affection towards each other. There were more casually rubbed heads and glancing kisses against cheeks, not just those wrapped up in the fervor of a post-goal celebration, but off the pitch, too, in the midst of press conferences, or a quick buss on the cheek after a well-delivered joke at the pub. Sam didn't know if this had something to do with Mark freeing an aspect in them they had previously been unaware of, or if the lgbt-tolerance training they all had to go through had had an effect. They played better as a team, too. Mark and Anders, especially, developed a shorthand that made them all but unconquerable on the pitch. Maya and Sam developed their own at home. He was falling for her, but, aside from his slip the night before as they made love in his kitchen, he would not allow himself to voice it. Even though he was the manager of the most gay-friendly club in the UK, aside from the exclusively gay ones, he knew that acknowledging a relationship would be risking his career, and it would certainly ruin Mark's. Because 'she' was a 'he' in the light of day, and in the end, that was what mattered. Still, in losing one, he had lost the other, and that was both a lover and a friend gone.

The sun was still up when Sam staggered into his flat. Between the meetings, the pep talks he'd given his players (despite his own reeling from Mark's leaving), and Jesper's folder of potential replacements, he was wiped out. For the first time that he could remember, he left before his assistant.

Reporters phoned, having somehow gotten his home number. The answering machine picked up their calls. He showered, undressed, and wandered the apartment in his shorts and shirt. Tomorrow, he had to focus on winning again, on finding a new striker. But for now, he was going to treat himself to a good solid night of sulking. He scanned his DVD collection. It was all but devoid of guy flicks. A token copy of "Dirty Harry" sat on the shelf between the complete "Fawlty Towers" box set and "Driving Miss Daisy." It was a gift from Anders, who had been over, glanced at Sam's film collection, and turned up with the movie the next day, handing it over solemnly and without explanation. Sam had not gotten around to watching it yet.

"White Christmas" was always good for a cry. He popped it into the DVD player. He was humming along with 'Sisters' when the door bell rang. He turned the TV off. The doorman would only allow a few people without first announcing them. Sam checked the spy hole, gathered himself, and opened the door.

"Mark?"

"Can I come in?" Mark had a rucksack slung across one shoulder. He shook drops of water off a collapsed umbrella.

"Yeah. Course." Sam stepped back to let Mark through. "I didn't know if I'd see you again." He took the umbrella from him and laid it against the wall. He put a smile on so Mark wouldn't see his disappointment. When he heard the doorbell, he had hoped for Maya.

"Why wouldn't you see me again?"

"I don't know. We left it kind of... I said some things."

"Yeah, you did." Mark tossed the rucksack onto the couch.

"I'm sorry—"

In that instant, Sam was vaguely aware of Mark's fists on his shoulders gripping his shirt and pulling him forward. But mainly he was cognizant of Mark's lips and Mark's tongue steadfastly working its way into his mouth. Sam's hands hung limp at his sides. Mark's fingers scratched through Sam's hair in the way that Maya did. Sam opened his mouth. Mark's tongue seemed heavier than Maya's, but it could have been the force he was using to sweep it over Sam's teeth. He tasted different, too, like he had come directly from eating a curry. Maya tasted like water and mint. Sam lifted his arms, finally, and touched Mark's back, because that was something that did not change. He wanted _her_ , and if he closed his eyes, touched in the right place, then he could believe, maybe... For a moment, it almost worked. Sam's cock twitched with interest. He could feel Mark's muscles pulsing as his arms moved, still stroking Sam's hair. Sam's stomach hitched when he felt Mark's fingers glance over it as he reached for the hem of Sam's shirt. He opened his eyes.

"Mark—"

"It's o.k. Sam." Mark began to tug Sam's shirt upwards. As he did, he shifted again, and for the first time, Sam felt an unmistakeable hardness against his thigh. His stomach jerked again. Bile rose in his mouth. He hop-stumbled backwards, brushing Mark off him. He yanked his shirt down. It was not long enough to cover the tenting in his shorts. Mark stayed where Sam had left him. Sam breathed, filling his diaphragm with air and expelling it loudly.

"You shouldn't have done that."

Mark stared at his hands. "I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me, wanting to kiss my boyfriend."

"I'm not your..." He was going to be sick. There were lines not to be crossed.

His dick evidently enjoyed crossing lines. With each twist of disgust that his stomach endured, his erection became more firm.

The phone rang. Sam jumped and said a silent prayer of thanks. Up to now, he had been hard pressed to think of a benefit to a journalist having his number. Interrupting a conversation such as this one, that was one hell of a benefit. He had resolved to give the person on the other end of the line the longest interview in the history of interviews before the phone was even to his ear. "Hello?"

"Sammy, I've been trying to reach you for a week."

"I know, mum. I'm sorry. I've been busy." He glanced at Mark, whose expression cleared of the annoyance that had pinched it when Sam grabbed the phone. Sam smiled in return. On cue, Sam's dick deflated, another relief. His mother's voice was an anathema to his erections thanks to her coming into his room without knocking when he was fourteen. She had dropped the laundry basket on the edge of his dresser before noticing her half-bared son frozen on his tiny bed. Her face was red when she hustled out. He swore and pulled the duvet over his exposed bottom half. He could still hear her laughing on the other side of the closed door.

"I saw that you lost one of your players. I'm sorry, son."

"I'm sure he'll enjoy where he's going. And I've been working out how to restructure the team."

"Who was it who left?"

"Mark Roy."

"I don't think I remember him."

"You know him—Maya's brother."

"How are you and Maya doing?" There was a definite cheer in her voice at the mention of Maya.

"Oh, we're..." He met Mark's eyes. "Maya and I are in talks."

"You can't get around your mother with negotiation code."

Sam chuckled. "Just had to try."

"Is she there now?"

"Yes, she's here." He grinned at Mark, not caring if he saw through Sam's plan. It wouldn't be the first time he'd used his mother to soften up a girl. Not that Mark was a... A flurry of gestures followed, culminating in Mark's accepting the phone.

"Hello, Mrs. Tyler," he said in Maya's voice. He started down the hall with the phone, calling over his shoulder, "This could be awhile, Sam. Your mum and I need to have some girl talk."

Sam sighed. His mother was naïve in many ways, despite the street smarts she had developed in raising a son alone, and he wasn't sure if she honestly did not know that Mark and Maya were the same person, or if she knew, why she carried on the charade. Perhaps it was a special form of parental denial.

In Mark's absence, he had a moment to review what he had done. How much effort for him to stop the kiss the moment Mark initiated it? The pathetic thing was that he felt he had cheated on Maya. He sat and rubbed his head, absurdly hoping that when Mark re-emerged, they could act like nothing had happened. Have a beer or three on the couch—with a few cushions placed between them in case Mark got any ideas--hell, they could break open the cellophane on "Dirty Harry". Act like proper mates. The last thing he wanted to do was talk about it.

Mark returned and handed the phone back. His cheeks held a slight blush.

"Did my mum ask your intentions towards me?" He meant the question to be light because perhaps Mark wanted to avoid talking, too, but his voice decided to toss a nervous giggle in and ruined it. Before he could turn away and hide his own embarrassed flush, Mark had positioned himself right beside him.

"Actually, we were talking about recipes. She's fond of my German potato salad."

"Oh."

"So. Are we still going to see each other? Newcastle isn't that far away... I mean, I'd like to make this work."

"You'll be training all the time, and you know what my schedule's like. Won't be any time for going down the pub. Not as often as we do now, anyway."

"I'm not talking about going down the pub, Sam."

"What else are we going to do, Mark?" It seemed they both needed a reminder of the participants of the conversation.

"I'm sure we'll think of something," Mark said. He acted as if he didn't know that his foot was planted beside Sam's and nuzzling his instep.

"Don't.." A pause as they stared at each other. The sound of his own pulse filled Sam's ears. Then: "I wish you'd told me you were leaving."

"I did tell you."

"Told me sooner, then."

"I'm sorry about that." Mark sighed and massaged his shoulder. A hundred-too-many falls on his side had made it all but arthritic. He could predict rain with it, he'd bragged to Sam once, and hadn't taken any mind when Sam had told him that any fool in England could predict the rain. The trick was in predicting the sun. "I can bring Maya out if you want; I have the wig in the bag, but I..." He inhaled and seemed to steel himself. "I came here tonight as what I am. Right now."

"I can see that." Despite his annoyance—why he didn't he just transform already--Sam forced his tone into a lighter register, aiming to contradict the hitch in Mark's voice that made the statement sound not just obvious, but final. Sam pressed his fingernails into his palm and shrugged away the idea. Instead, he reached for the bag on the couch and unzipped it. His hand hovered just above the blue robe, sense memory enough to fill his mind with the cool smoothness of the silk.

Mark tugged the bag away and dropped it on the floor. _'That's no way to treat a lady'_ , Sam found himself thinking.

"Let me fuck you."

"What? What?" Some how the words fought their way up his throat, timing their movements against the convulsive swallowing that aimed to keep them down. The room seemed suddenly smaller in that instant. They had done so much before, but there was a _line_ that people did not cross. Why was Sam the only person in the world who was aware of this?

"Just this once. Let me show you how it feels when you... Please, Sam." He pulled his shirt off and tossed it away. He stood before Sam, unmistakably male.

Sam turned away from the truth.

"Sam." Mark's voice was strong, every ounce of Maya banished from him. "I promise you won't regret it."

"Why would you...why would you bring _that_ \--" He thrust an outstretched, shaking, finger at the bag--"if you were going to ask me this?"

"Because I didn't know if I was going to go through with it. That's my parachute in there."

"Why don't you use it now? Twenty minutes, right? For the transformation?" His desire to see her had exploded into a need. Mark had no business taking her away. And now with Mark's move, this could be his last chance. He might never see her again.

"I don't question you or ask you to change or only want to touch you when you're wearing a certain vest..."

"You don't honestly think it's the same thing, do you?" He glanced at Mark, but looking at him made his stomach clench in nausea because his eyes went straight to Mark's crotch, to the bulge that his blue jeans did not disguise. "I'm dating Maya. That's all. I'm sorry if you thought otherwise, but I just don't see you that way."

"Sam. You can't pick and choose. I am one person. If you love Maya, you have to love me." Mark was shouting. Sam turned away and squeezed his eyes closed. Everything should just stop.

"It doesn't work that way."

"Yes. It does." Mark grabbed his shirt off the couch and pulled it back on. "I know you've got some kind of issue with being with a bloke..."

"You're my mate. I don't see you that way is all."

"You've got some powerful blinkers up, then. Because I have been there for you for _everything_. I was thinking, you know, if we could just do this tonight... I just wanted to know what it would be like to be with you. Like this." He gestured down his body. "I didn't mean to freak you out." He was almost spitting in his fury. Sam kept his eyes trained on the bag on the floor. He stared at it as Mark lifted it to his shoulder.

"You ought to get your head checked, Sam."

The door's closing click jarred Sam from his frozen state. Then he slid backwards over the top of the couch until he was laying down. His head was spinning. Logic, that was all he asked for. People and logic did not have to be mutually exclusive entities. What was so wrong with thinking that? Two clicks on the remote and Rosemary and Vera were back, caring, sharing, every single thing that they were wearing.

He stared at the screen until his eyes were so dry that he had no choice but to blink.

_"God help the mister that comes between me and my sister, and God help the sister that comes between me and my man."_

Crescendo.

 

 

The next week, City won their match against Everton and regained their ranking. Newcastle United drew against Portsmouth and dropped a rank. Sam told himself not to gloat, and in fact he found it quite easy not to. At City, Mark had been one of the fastest on the side. A true athlete, he could run rings around the others, but watching the footage of this latest game—he could have been running with weights tied around his ankles for the way his teammates outran him, darting in and out for the ball, evidently forgetting that Mark was one of them. It was the kind of playing that drove Sam mad. If his club had dared try it, he'd have benched the lot of them, sod the effect.

"Congratulations, Guv," Anders Andersen said. He stood in the door to Sam's office, holding a glass of champagne.

"Bit early for champagne, isn't it, Anders?" Sam said. Season is still young. "We've still plenty of chances for relegation."

Anders shrugged. "Better to drink it now than to miss our chance."

Sam smiled and shook his head. "Suppose I can't argue with that." He gestured towards the television. "Did you see the Newcastle match?"

"Heard about it. Sounds like Mark has to adjust to a new kind of football."

Sam started to fold his arms over his chest, but even the motion made him feel vulnerable, like he was protecting himself from accusation, so he turned the move into a downward motion and smoothed down his sleeves.

"They shouldn't have played him so soon. He's had no time to adjust to it."

Anders nodded. "Have you decided if you're going to bring someone up from the youth side? Berkowitz, maybe?"

"He's good, but I'm not sure that he's ready yet. I've got my eye out."

Anders smiled. "I know what that means." He pointed at the papers spread over the table. "All in your charts, isn't it?"

"Key to everything in life."

"Shame I never learned how to read a graph." He raised the glass.

"How are you feeling? You were sick last week, right?"

"Doc fixed me up, right as rain. Have you been down to meet him?"

"I forgot we had a new man. I'll go say hello as soon as I figure out who our new player is."

"He's about sixty, I'd guess. Got some stories. Hates Newcastle."

"I like him already. What's he called?"

"Kramer." Anders smiled. "See you again, Guv."

"See you." Sam sat down on the couch. He spread the charts and pictures from Jesper's file out in front of him. Somewhere in the mess was the name of his new player—the player he and the Board would pursue until he signed on and made City a whole team again. He just had to find him.

 

 

After another week he had narrowed the list down to three potentials, and knew that if he just focused a bit more, he could get it to one. Statistics had consumed him. He had no time for thinking about anything else. He would not allow himself to think of anything else. Every night at the office until two a.m., surrounded by charts, and then dragging himself home or sleeping on the couch.

He had gained six pounds from spending so much time on his bum.

He had not spoken to Mark since the day after his first game with Newcastle when he called in the dead of night while Sam was still at the office.

_"Hello?"_

_"Sam?"_

_"Mark. You. Are you alright? I mean, it's great to hear from you."_

_"You're at the office aren't you?"_

_"Yes."_

_"Are you going to sleep there tonight?"_

_"Haven't decided yet. How are you?"_

_"I think I picked up a bug. Haven't played like such shite in I don't know when."_

_"Maybe you should call some of your new Newcastle mates. I’m sure they can sympathise with you—assuming they stop running circles around you long enough."_

_"Sam..."_

_"Raimes is a crap manager."_

_"He's not such a bad guy."_

_"Mark—"_

_"Sam, I..."_

_"What?"_

_"I wanted to say I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pressured you into doing something you didn't want to do. You weren't ready for it. I'm sorry."_

_"Don't know what you're talking about."_

_"I mean it, Sam."_

_"So do I."_

_"Well. Anyway. I'm going to see the club doctor tomorrow. See if he can work out what's wrong with me. I've been feeling dragged down."_

_"Mark, you don't let them pump you with anything. You hear me?"_

_"It's just rumours."_

_"Promise, Mark. You don't need it. You can always come back."_

_"I..."_

_"Just come back."_

"Sam? You alright?"

Sam blinked. He sat up and rubbed his palms in his eyes. His secretary was standing beside him. She handed him a coffee. "Sorry for waking you. You were looking a bit iffy. Bad dream? You should go home. Get cleaned up."

"I'm fine."

"Go look in the mirror and tell yourself that."

"Just...find me a clean shirt."

"Alright."

He hunched over the coffee and inhaled the steam wafting over it. The back of his neck tingled. Sarah was right. He needed a shower. He sipped the coffee and tried to forget the dream. Had he told Mark to come back or just dreamed it? He had half a mind to ring him and tell him not to go see Raimes's doctor, but it wasn't Sam's business to tell Mark anything anymore. Sometimes he thought that he had dreamed the entire call.

In the meantime, he had his spreadsheets.

While he waited for Sarah to return with a shirt, he spread a tablecloth that looked like a pitch over his coffee table and started setting checkers on it to represent the players. He had his laptop beside him and used it to examine his statistics every so often as he worked out the game plan for the next match.

A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door. Before he could respond, Jesper walked in. Sam half rose, but Jesper signaled that he should keep his seat.

He sat down on the chair opposite the coffee table, leaned forward and clasped his hands between his knees. His brow furrowed as he looked at Sam.

"Sam—"

"Jesper, I think I've figured out how we can take West Ham..." Sam was talking too quickly. He never was any good at hiding his nerves, and nervous was the only thing he could be when the club president was paying him a personal visit. His shirt did smell a bit, now that he thought of it. He wished Sarah would hurry with the replacement, but on the other hand, he didn't fancy her handing it to him in front of Jesper.

"I'm not here about that, Sam. I'm sure you've figured out just what to do with that magic of yours."

"It's not magic. It's pure logic and a little elbow grease."

When Jesper smiled he seemed almost kindly. Certainly it took a decade off his face.

"Sam, I got a call this morning from Avis Burnes."

Sam's breath skipped at the mention of Newcastle's president. "They're sending Mark back?"

There was something different in the smile now. Something uncomfortable. "Mark is in hospital. I’m told he took some performance enhancing drugs and had a bad reaction."

"What are you talking about?" Sam said. "Mark doesn't do that." He surreptitiously pinched his wrist in case this was the second part of his new 'favourite' dream. His wrist hurt. He blinked at Jesper. Sometimes if you blinked in dreams, the scene would change.

The scene did not change.

"Well, apparently things are different at Newcastle," Jesper said. He had acquired a mug of coffee from somewhere. It took Sam a moment to realize that it was the same one Sarah had brought for him when she woke him up. Now Jesper blew in it gently.

"I warned him," Sam said.

He watched and silently counted down from three as Jesper drank. At two, Jesper pulled the mug away from his face, and peered into it, one eyebrow arched.

"Problem, sir?" Sam managed to keep the smirk out of his tone, but only just.

"This coffee. It's a bit..ripe."

"Yes, sir. That's how we like it down here."

"Hmm." Jesper carefully set the mug down, as if he feared a drop might splash out and burn a hole in his trousers.

Sam waited a second for politeness' sake before he picked it up. He gulped the sludge down. The impact went directly to his brain, shoving off his sluggishness, and finally allowing the full force of what Jesper was saying to reach him.

"I told him he'd have trouble if he went over there."

"Sam—they're saying that he was using while he was with us, that this is not the result of one incident, but rather a build-up of after-effects. Do you know anything about it? I know that you had a friendship with him..."

"I can tell you that he wasn't using anything."

"Are you positive of that?"

"Yes. Absolutely."

"There will be an investigation. If anything is found..."

"There's nothing to find."

"Sam, you'll lose your position. The team could be torn apart. Just like..."

"Don't say it."

"Newcastle."

"Colin Raimes should be in prison. Instead, he's still running his team. All his players are doped up, and now Mark... Is he going to be alright?"

"Too soon to say. Sam, as club president, I have to advise you to take precautions."

"Against what? I have no secrets."

"If anyone on the team is using, you'll be held responsible. I've advised our lawyer to be in touch."

"'The buck stops here', yeah, I know. My team wouldn't do that. They respect the integrity of the game." Sam kept his hands flat on his knees, resisting his inclination to tug the fabric as he shouted at Jesper that as the top dog he should take the fall, not Sam—but Sam knew how such things worked. It was never the president that fell, just all the idiots beneath him.

"Well. I've said what I came to. If you want to take the day off and go see him, you should do that, and the rest of the team, too."

Sam nodded. "I'll let them know."

Jesper stood and clasped Sam's hand. "I know you'll do the right thing, son. Oh, and Sam? Get yourself cleaned up. You're the public face of the club. A little less pizza, eh?"

"Sir."

He left just as Sarah returned with the shirt. "I was outside with it. I didn't want to interrupt."

"I appreciate that."

"Will there be anything else?"

"No. Not just now."

"Are you going to visit Mark?"

"Probably should."

"Give him my best."

"I will."

She nodded and left. Sam quickly stripped off his shirt, scrubbed under his arms with it, and put on the new one. It felt package fresh, crisp elbows and stiff collar. What had Jesper meant by 'the right thing'? The right thing in going to see Mark, or the right thing in tearing Mark's life apart to find any trace of doping? He pushed the thought away. There was nothing to find. He knew it already. As much as Mark drove him mad, Sam knew he would never do something like that. He was pacing, almost frantic. Finally, he grabbed his jacket and went towards the door. Forget all the other stuff. Mark needed him.

He stood at the lift, pushing the button every two seconds.

"You know, it won't come any faster if you do that."

Sam looked over and saw the club's lawyer standing beside him.

"Larry. Hello."

"Hello, Sam." Larry looked at his shoes, pulling his ploy of pretending to think up something to say, when anyone knew perfectly well that he always knew exactly what he was going to say. Sam looked upwards and rolled his eyes, waiting. Larry raised his head.

"Sam, is there anything you want to tell me about Mark?"

"No. There isn't." There was a whole list of things he didn't want to tell Larry about Mark.

"Sam."

"Larry, I'm on my way to the hospital. I'll call you when the police contact me."

"If they contact you. Let's not get ahead of ourselves."

"Calling you in isn't getting ahead of ourselves? I'll have to remember that."

"See that you do. I'll help you through this, Sam."

"There's nothing to help me with." The elevator arrived, finally. Sam stepped on. Larry waved, a sweeping gesture with his forearm as the door closed.


	3. Life on Mars: The Football AU; Episode 1: Newcastle United

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Life on Mars. With football.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by an idea [](http://mikes-grrl.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://mikes-grrl.livejournal.com/)**mikes_grrl** put forth awhile ago wishing to see our boys recast

Title: Life on Mars: The Football AU; Episode 1: Newcastle United  
Chapter: 3/6  
Author: [](http://amproof.livejournal.com/profile)[**amproof**](http://amproof.livejournal.com/)  
Wordcount: 3843 this chapter, 24,936 overall  
Disclaimer: Life on Mars is property of Kudos. Any real persons who might appear in this series do so in fictional incarnations. Characters created for this AU are mine and are not meant to resemble real people.  
Rating: Brown Cortina overall for language, sexual situations (het and slash), moments of peril  
Notes: Inspired by an idea [](http://mikes-grrl.livejournal.com/profile)[**mikes_grrl**](http://mikes-grrl.livejournal.com/) put forth awhile ago wishing to see our boys recast  
in the world of professional soccer/football. My goal is to rewrite each episode within this world. I will be creating a lot of original characters to round out the teams, but real players may appear/garner mention, however their roles will rarely be more substantial than the real characters who are portrayed on the actual show. As much as possible, I have remained loyal to the match fixtures of the 1973-74 season, though at times plotting made that impossible.  Finally, huge thanks to my beta [](http://karaokegal.livejournal.com/profile)[**karaokegal**](http://karaokegal.livejournal.com/) and my brit-pick/footie watch/northern way explainers [](http://lady-t-220.livejournal.com/profile)[**lady_t_220**](http://lady-t-220.livejournal.com/) and [](http://siluria.livejournal.com/profile)[**siluria**](http://siluria.livejournal.com/). I'm sure I've forgotten something, so if you have questions, just ask.

Summary: It's Life on Mars. With football.

Previously: [1.1](http://amproof.livejournal.com/347064.html#cutid2) [1.2](http://amproof.livejournal.com/347212.html)

 

_Reports are coming in that Mark Roy, the former Manchester City forward recently transferred to Newcastle United, is in hospital for an undisclosed condition, however our sources are telling us the cause may be related to performance enhancing drugs. Now, anyone who follows sport will recall the scandal last year that centred around Roy's new club and this very issue. So, if this turns out to be true, it is certain that a new inquiry will be opened._

Sam heard the report on his car radio as he pulled into the hospital car park. The news must have just broke because there were no reporters gathered yet. He parked around the back and hoped his car was far enough out of sight to avoid notice. The nurse at the reception desk asked for his autograph, which he gave, and then she directed him to Mark's room. As he approached, he saw that someone was sitting outside the room. The man turned and Sam saw the unmistakable ginger hair of the Magpies' manager.

"Tyler?"

"Raimes. What the fuck did you do to my striker?"

"I believe he's my striker now, darling."

"Watch who you call darling."

"Relax. Or are you that paranoid about people knowing you're a raging poof?"

For a second, a wave of panic grabbed him in the gut and he envisioned lifting Raimes out of the chair and shoving him into the wall. Where did he get off calling him a poof? Raimes knew his way around so many parks that he could marshal a fucking Pride Parade. Raimes' smirk grated like fingernails on a chalkboard. Sam got a hold of himself and schooled his expression into a detached flatness. It was an insult, nothing more. Even if Raimes knew the truth of his relationship with Maya, there was no way that could be parlayed into a phrase like 'raging poof'. He would not allow himself to get angry. It wasn't worth his time. All Raimes was doing was standing in the way of Sam's seeing Mark.

"Well, don't you read a lot into things? I only meant that I'm not your friend, so go easy on the endearments, _mate._ "

Raimes in general was twitchy as hell, and when he stood up, Sam automatically put his arms out in case he should twitch himself right to the floor. Raimes shook his head, though Sam had no idea if that was his intention or if it was another motor tic, and curled his lip up. Sam had disliked Raimes from the moment he had first laid eyes on him ten years earlier. He was in a pub with a few older players (so he told the story, in reality he had trailed along after them), and Raimes was on the telly sitting beside the then-manager of Newcastle United. The manager was announcing Raimes's move to the club while Raimes sat beside him and tugged his ear and scratched his head in an evident attempt to distract from his facial tic. Anyone with an ounce of sense would have tested him for substance abuse right then. Sam never gave that manager much credit for having sense.

"What are you doing here?" Sam said.

"Keeping an eye on my newest member, what do you think?" Raimes dropped into the chair again. "I can't believe this happened." He glared at Sam, though it was filtered by the blinking. "Did you know he was into this shit?"

Sam leaned into Mark's room. He was covered up. He looked like he was sleeping. Beside him, a machine beeped steadily. "He's not into it. Not until he transferred to you, anyway. So what did you do to him?"

Raimes sat up. "Us? We didn't do owt. You'll want to be watching yourself, making accusations like that."

Sam turned away from Mark. He pointed at Raimes, close enough to poke him. "You'd better hope I don't find out that you had."

Raimes shrank away from the pointing finger, looking, briefly, frightened. "I told you I hadn't. Anyway, I was at our youth club last night, doing a demonstration. I've a rock solid alibi." He grinned, breathing easily as Sam felt the air thicken.

"I'll check it. Don't think I won't."

"Ah, Tyler, you should have been a copper."

Sam stopped short of nodding. Instead, he shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and leaned on the doorframe, one eye on Mark, the other on Raimes. There was a time he had wanted to be a policeman, but that was before his father had disappeared, before he had known that when it came to finding missing daddies, coppers were nigh on useless. After one too many front-step visits of 'I'm sorry Mrs. Tyler' and 'Probably better off, Mrs. Tyler' and 'Forget the bastard, Mrs. Tyler' and seeing his mum cry, it was football all the way for Sam (once he got over the phase of wanting to be a giraffe, of course).

"Reckon coppers can't threaten people, Raimes."

"That what you're doing?"

Sam shrugged. "If he dies..."

"Jesus, Tyler, you act like you're in love with him."

"He's a good mate. Not that you'd know anything about that," Sam snapped. He should have been relieved that Raimes had basically confirmed that he didn't know anything about his and Mark's relationship. If he did, he could kill Sam's career. Instead, he was angry. Angry at himself for letting Mark go, angry at Mark for going, angry at Raimes for standing there and acting like they were the sort who stood and talked with each other while Mark was in an unwilling sleep a few feet away.

Raimes met his hard gaze. "I've got friends."

"Good for you."

"Mind you, they're not like the sycophants you've got hanging around. As eager to kiss your ass as buy you a pint, just so you'll put a good word in with them when time comes for renewing their contracts.."

"It doesn't work that way.."

"Doesn't it? Your mates are here. Ask them yourself."

Sam began to retort, but he looked out the window and saw that Raimes was right. They were tumbling out of five cars, the whole team comprising a group of about twenty-five with the substitutes, trainers, and second-string included, and assembling themselves into some kind of order as if debating the best way to assault the hospital. Despite the reason for their visit, Sam saw wide grins, perhaps the residue of a joke shared on the ride over. Something in his stomach pinched. They never joked around with him. He could hear Raimes chuckling quietly behind him.

"Looks like they're having a jolly time without you."

"It doesn't mean anything."

"Doesn't it?" Raimes stood up. "See you around, Tyler." He strode off as if he had been waiting all along for this one moment when he could hit Sam where it hurt and be sure of it.

 

Sam went into Mark's room so he could get what he needed to say out before the others joined him. "You probably want me to apologise. You're a stubborn prick, and if you'd listened to me in the first place you wouldn't be in this situation." He stood at the head of the bed, staring at Mark's face for any sign that his words were sinking in. He could feel that he was going to lose control of himself, and paused to take a deep, shaky breath. He blinked rapidly. He patted Mark's shoulder with more force than he intended. "If you die, I will never forgive you."

Boles came in first and took up position across from Sam as the others filed in and stood around the bed. They didn't say much as they looked at him, each man caught in his own thoughts. Anders was the first to touch him. He quietly began to hold Mark's hand. As if the motion woke something in them, Chambers squeezed the other hand, and Holmes and Johnson, on the end, patted his feet.

"He'll be all right," Chambers said.

"Course he will. Just needs to get it out of system," Sam said. The back of his eyes burned with restrained tears. He was almost grateful when the nurse came in.

"The press has arrived. You might want to go out the back."

"Thank you," Sam said.

She smiled with closed lips at each of them.

They looked at Mark again, every person awkward, and no one wanting to be the first to head for the door. Then Anders kissed him on the forehead and walked out. Another second and Boles did the same. One by one, they each echoed the movement. Sam was the last. He stroked Mark's hair. He bent until his lips brushed Mark's ear.

"Please don't die." He kissed Mark's forehead, wet from the others' lips, and forced himself to leave.

He was a half-mile from the stadium when the radio brought another report.

_We're getting word now that Mark Roy, the former Manchester City forward recently transferred to Newcastle United, has died of an apparent drug overdose. Roy was 25 years old. He scored 103 goals in his eight year professional career, 75 for Manchester City..._

Sam switched the radio off. Eyes on the road. Just drive. The phone rang. He grabbed it from the passenger seat where he had tossed it when he got in. "Yes?"

"Sam, there's news--" It was his assistant.

"I just heard."

"Sam, I..."

"Gather the team. Right now. Conference rooms, ten minutes. I want all staff there. Every single person, understand?"

"Yes, sir."

He hung up. The world had crumbled. That was what it felt like. Breathe. He pulled over and beat on the steering wheel. He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting back the tears that threatened to overtake him. Someone outside his car was laughing and he looked up to see who could possibly be happy. The man fell against the car and righted himself, one hand up in apology. He staggered away. Sam rolled his window down and held out a ten pound note.

"Give us the bottle."

The man came back. "Haven't got a bottle of nowt."

"I know you've got something. Come on."

Finally, the man pulled a bottle out of his coat and cautiously handed it over as he snatched the note from Sam.

"Drink it in good health," he slurred.

Sam rolled his window back up. He swallowed the whiskey with shaking hands. Some of it spilled onto his cheeks as he raised the bottle.

He had to pull himself together, go speak to his team, and not let on that he had just lost the love of his life. The whiskey burned. There wasn't much in the bottle to start with, not enough to numb him. At the stadium car park, he parked out on the edge so he would have to walk the long distance to the offices and thus put off telling the team that much longer, though by now they surely already knew.

As he got out of the car, his phone rang.

"Hello?" He grabbed it and closed the car door.

"Is this Sam Tyler?'

"Yes. Who is this?" He started the slow walk towards the building.

"Mr. Tyler, this is Reg King. I'm a reporter with the Herald. I wonder if I could have a comment on Mark Roy from you."

"You're not from the sports section."

"No, I'm not."

"Look, Reg, now is not a good time. I'm on my way to talk to my team now. Could you give us some time, please?"

"I understand. I'm sorry, but if you could spare just a second..."

The phone fell from Sam's hands. He was dimly aware of his name echoing from it, and the screech of tires speeding away.

There was a child whispering, though he could not make out the words. It seemed to be playing a game; there was a scream, and music. Sam felt as if he were falling, but at the same time he felt the cold ground against his cheek and remembered a car careening through the car park.

He got up after a moment and shakily dusted himself off. The fall had turned him around so when he stood he was facing the street. He looked towards the ground for his mobile. He had dropped it when the car clipped him. The ground was dirt with patches of grass popped up at random. A moment ago, hadn't he been lying on tarmac? He blinked. Still grass. No sign of his phone, either. He scrubbed his head with his knuckles.

"You alright?" A high-pitched voice shouted at him.

Sam looked up and saw a child standing a ways off. The kid seemed to be dressed in thirty year old hand-me-downs.

"Did you see what happened?"

"Car hit you, didn't it?" The boy continued addressing him from where he stood. He was tossing something from hand to hand as he spoke. He was too far away for Sam to see what it was.

Car. Sam looked around for his car. There was nothing but a battered old wreck sitting a few feet off. Someone had probably abandoned it.

"Where's my car?"

"Right there, isn't it?"

"This is not my car." He pointed at it. "That. Is a piece of shit."

"Fuck you. My dad drives one just like it." The boy ended the mystery of what he was holding when he flung a small stone in Sam's direction and ran off. The stone pinged off the car and dropped to the ground.

"He's welcome to it," Sam muttered. They would work it out in the stadium. Sarah's hideous coffee was exactly what he needed. He turned towards City's stadium. ( And froze.

The stadium was gone.

He was standing on scrubland. He turned again, just to be sure. No stadium. No anything. He held his hand in front of his mouth and tested his breath. He knew he had a low tolerance for alcohol, but... At least one thing remained the same. A wave of relief caught him when he saw it, and he ran across the street into the Chicken and Whistle pub, where he and the team had passed many post-training hours. It was empty apart from the publican and one patron. They both looked up when he entered.

"What happened to the stadium?"

"Stadium? Right where it should be, isn't it? Down on Maine Road. You lost, sir?"

Sam shook his head. "No. Not Maine Road. City of Manchester."

"You're in the city of Manchester, mate. You feeling all right?" the patron peered at him. Sam turned away and put his hand on the bar to steady himself.

"I'm not sure."

The man came closer. "Wait a bit—I know you."

"Oh, I don't..." Sam stepped backwards. His new friend hovered close.

"Yes! You're Sam Tyler!" The man began to smile and poked him joyously in the shoulder.

"Yes?"

"You've come to save us!"

"I..." Sam looked to the man behind the bar, who offered no help, as he was busily pulling up two fresh glasses and grinning with the same disconcerting joy.

"A drink for Manchester City's saviour!"

"I don't think I should..."

"Right. Hold off—what are you doing over here? You want to be over on Maine Road. Say, do you need a lift?"

"I...suppose I do."

The man was up before Sam finished his answer. He wrapped a jolly arm around Sam's shoulders and they went out together.

"Classic car," Sam noted as the man gestured towards his ride. He stood by as the man unlocked it for him. They got in.

"Will be some day, I hope. Cost a fortune. Peter Miller, by the way. It's an honour to meet you. I'm a big fan, even though up to now you've played for the enemy."

"Up to now?"

"Aye."

"You don't like Manchester City?"

"Love it."

"But that's who I play for."

"Yeah, now. But you were a United man up until yesterday, weren't you?"

"I've never been a United Man." Sam pushed away the memory of the brief time when he had been, when he had dreamed of always being a United man. Peter clapped him on the shoulder.

"That's the spirit. I tell you, you are exactly what we've needed."

"Thank you." Sam had no idea what to say. The man was obviously a nutter, going on and on about nonsense. Sam sat back and watched out the window. All around, people wore odd clothes and every car was a classic. It was as if he had fallen down a rabbit hole into a time warp. He pinched the bridge of his nose. It had only been a little bit of whiskey...

"Here you are," Peter said. He stopped the car in front of Maine Road stadium. The stadium had stood until 2003. Sam had played in it, but had not become a manager until the club transferred to the City of Manchester stadium.

He trudged forward. Maine Road was standing. How could that be? Sam had been at the pulling down ceremony. He had breathed the dust as it crumbled. And yet, here it was, plain as day. As big as a...well, as a stadium. Peter was yelling something to him about not being a stranger, and he pasted on a smile and waved. This was all a big, horrible joke, and soon he would wake up from it, and Mark would still be dead. He had to tell the team—and make sure they didn't get any ideas in their heads about burning St. James' Park to the ground. He had to be careful not to put the idea in their heads himself.

He'd make sure they all went down the pub tonight, drink their minds off it.

As if that ever worked.

The entrance to the building was exactly as he remembered it. Even the smells, fried ham and egg from the canteen. But the lift seemed to be made of plywood, a pauper's coffin that moved up and down. He got in, figuring he had risked death and survived already, so what was one more time? He slapped himself in the face, and when he did not wake up, he did it again. The lift creaked and shook, as if being coaxed from a long sleep, but eventually it rose and spat him out on the fifth floor. He marched towards the conference room, but with each step he slowed and stared around himself. All around men in floral print shirts, wide open necks, jeans that flared, leather jackets, just as he had seen on the street. Every woman in a skirt. He stopped a brunette who was passing with a tray that bore steaming mugs of tea.

"Is there a costume party I don't know about?"

She smiled politely as her eyes scanned him head to toe, caution and a definite lack of tolerance for nonsense blazed in them. He let go of her elbow.

"No, sir," she said.

"Then why is everyone dressed like this?" He gestured around him. Her smile became tight.

"I don't know what you mean."

Frustrated, he grabbed her again, spinning her to face the plate glass window that separated them from a vacant office. The tray was jerked from her grip by the force with which he whirled her around. Tea splattered the floor as a carnage of ceramic surrounded the tray. She started to bend down, edging ever so slightly away from him, but he kept hold of her arm and held her up.

"Like this." He gestured at their reflections.

 

 

She inhaled sharply. "Looks the same as always to me, sir." Sam, who had been looking at her, waiting for her to realise that he was at the end of his rope with this particular joke, now looked at himself. Wide collar, open shirt; he even had a gold medallion on. He looked at his feet. Heeled boots. He stared. He reached for his reflection. It reached for him.

Sam staggered backwards, mouth open, tongue searching for words. The woman had gone to her haunches and was picking up the pieces of ceramic that once were mugs. He stared at her. "What's going on?"

She stood again, with the tray. "They said you might be acting strange your first day, what with the concussion and all."

"Concussion?"

She spoke carefully. "You've been hit by a car, sir. I should toddle off and get some more tea. If you'll excuse me."

She began to go. "Wait," he said. "What am I supposed to do?"

She shrugged. "They're all waiting for you in the conference room, like you asked. I reckon you're supposed to tell them what to do."

"Oh. Right. Where's that?"

"Down the corridor on the left."

"Thank you. Miss..?"

"Cartwright."

"Miss Cartwright."

She went off, and he tried not to notice the way her skirt fell around her legs, and swayed against her knees, but it was better than focusing on anything else facing him at the moment, so he allowed himself two seconds of wishful thinking before he realised that he was actually thinking about the first time he had seen Maya at that dance and how she had moved, and all the thoughts that crammed into his head in that moment. He looked at himself in the window again. All parts intact. Just unbelievably wrong.

He heard bellows of laughter as he walked towards the conference room. He paused at the door and pinched himself on the wrist. Nothing changed. He was beginning to doubt that pinching ever worked.

"Would you like a biscuit, sir?"

"What?" Sam turned to see an elderly woman stopped beside him. She gestured to the service cart that she was evidently pushing along the corridor with a sympathetic smile.

"You look like you could use a bit of a pick me up. Were you the one who was hit by a car, dearie?"

"I'm fine."

"They're homemade. Not like those stale ones you get from shops."

"I don't have much a sweet tooth."

"If you say so, sir. Should you change your thinking, I'll save a special one for you." Slowly, she urged the cart into motion and moved off. He watched her, listening to the creak of the wheels.

All right. So this was practise. He'd go in, practise telling them, whoever they were, about Mark, and then he'd wake up and tell his team. He nodded to himself, satisfied with the plan. The laughter died down when he entered, all except a not-quite-ginger haired man standing at the back waving a cigarette around and making a lewd gesture with his other hand, bellowing a story that went along with the gesture as a few others stood around him, laughing. If not for the fact that they all wore matching training kits, Sam would have never pegged them for a football side. It had to be a joke, and he was getting sick of playing along, but, as it stood, he couldn't see how to do anything else. 


	4. Life on Mars: The Football AU; Episode 1: Newcastle United

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Life on Mars. With football.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by an idea [](http://mikes-grrl.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://mikes-grrl.livejournal.com/)**mikes_grrl** put forth awhile ago wishing to see our boys recast

Title: Life on Mars: The Football AU; Episode 1: Newcastle United  
Chapter: 4/6  
Author: [](http://amproof.livejournal.com/profile)[**amproof**](http://amproof.livejournal.com/)  
Wordcount: 3951 this chapter, 24,936 overall  
Disclaimer: Life on Mars is property of Kudos. Any real persons who might appear in this series do so in fictional incarnations. Characters created for this AU are mine and are not meant to resemble real people.  
Rating: Brown Cortina overall for language, sexual situations (het and slash), moments of peril  
Notes: Inspired by an idea [](http://mikes-grrl.livejournal.com/profile)[**mikes_grrl**](http://mikes-grrl.livejournal.com/) put forth awhile ago wishing to see our boys recast  
in the world of professional soccer/football. My goal is to rewrite each episode within this world. I will be creating a lot of original characters to round out the teams, but real players may appear/garner mention, however their roles will rarely be more substantial than the real characters who are portrayed on the actual show. As much as possible, I have remained loyal to the match fixtures of the 1973-74 season, though at times plotting made that impossible.  Finally, huge thanks to my beta [](http://karaokegal.livejournal.com/profile)[**karaokegal**](http://karaokegal.livejournal.com/) and my brit-pick/footie watch/northern way explainers [](http://lady-t-220.livejournal.com/profile)[**lady_t_220**](http://lady-t-220.livejournal.com/) and [](http://siluria.livejournal.com/profile)[**siluria**](http://siluria.livejournal.com/). I'm sure I've forgotten something, so if you have questions, just ask.

Summary: It's Life on Mars. With football.

Previously: [1.1](http://amproof.livejournal.com/347064.html#cutid2) [1.2](http://amproof.livejournal.com/347212.html) [1.3](http://amproof.livejournal.com/348905.html)

 

 

Sam moved to the front of the room. "There's no smoking in here."

The room was instantly quiet. The man with the cigarette took a long, slow, inhale. "Since when?"

"Since the non-smoking in a public place act."

"Never heard of it." The man was built like a bull-dozer. He stood with his head down, as if preparing to rush up the aisle and head butt Sam. Someone at Sam's side coughed quietly. He turned and saw a floppy haired young man smiling nervously at him with a hand outstretched..

"Chris Skelton. Uh, just wanted to say, you know, uh, welcome boss."

Sam stared at him. "It's 'guv'." One thing he was damn sure about—he wasn't going to dream himself a demotion, not after all the time and money he'd put into his management degree and the hours and years of experience earning himself a corner office.

The remnants of whispering stopped completely. Suddenly all eyes were on him. "Boss, I..." the young man was truly nervous now, and the not-quite-ginger one had put his cigarette out on the tabletop. "I don't think you should be saying that," Skelton finished.

"Chris, get back here. Don't want you standing too close to a nutter. Might rub off on you." The big man waved the cigarette stub. Chris loped towards him, head down, and sat.

Sam looked around. There were twelve men in the room, which was enough for a side and a spare. If this was the team, they were missing two men at least, either substitutes or players.

"I want you all to know that if anyone wants to talk about Mark, we'll arrange counseling."

There was a pause.

Finally, a blond at the front table raised his hand.

Sam pointed at him. "Yes. What's your name?"

"Skittles, Boss. Er. Who's Mark?"

Sam blinked slowly, as if this would be sufficient to reprogram the situation. As a group, they stared blankly back at him.

"Alright. That's enough." His hands flew up of their own accord. "Who are you people? Where is my team?"

"We're here, boss,where you asked us to be." Skelton said.

This was met by a derisive snort from the gingerish man.

"And where, exactly, is that?"

"At Maine Road. Where do you think?" the man said.

"Maine Road doesn't exist. Hasn't since 2003." Sam charged down the aisle of tables towards him and leaned into his face. The man put his arm up, hand outstretched and aiming for Sam's neck.

'Come on," Sam said. "Just try it." He bent down, eyes narrowed, breath echoing in his ears. "Wake. Me. Up."

"Ray. Don't." Skelton whispered, tugging on the other's shirt, and looking even more worried. There was a clatter in the hall, and as a whole every man in the room froze, apart from Sam. He was still leaning over this one called Ray, but when even Ray straightened and sat back, focused on the door like the rest of them, Sam turned around.

A man large enough to make the doorway look like it had been cut just so he could fill it stood there with hisarms crossed over his ample stomach, watching.

"Well?" Sam said, looking right back at him, "who are you supposed to be?"

The beast stepped forward and yanked him away from Ray. Sam's feet did not touch the floor as he was hauled to the front of the room.

"Gene Hunt. I'm your manager. You're my new transfer. Team captain, assistant manager, like."

Sam shook his head. "I don't think so," he snapped. "I didn't complete my badges in record time to _assistant_ manage under a Neanderthal.."

Hunt spun him around and slammed him against a chalkboard. It skittered across the floor. "I'll have your arse on a platter if you think you can come in here acting lord of the manor on my turf. You'll do as you're told. Are we understanding each other?" His face was right in Sam's, exuding waves of whiskey with each breath. Sam turned his nose away.

"Yes," he said, figuring that agreement was the best way for release.

"Good." Hunt squinted appraisingly, but let him go.

Sam fixed his shirt. "Alright. Tell me this. What year is it?" He didn't bother hiding the sneer in his voice. Maybe if he could get this bastard to throw him a bit harder he'd snap out of this hallucination.

"It's 1973. Almost training time. You've got fifteen seconds to get your arse out on the field and start showing what you've got, or I'm going to start knocking heads." He turned and aimed his shouting at the rest of the players. "That goes for all of you. Out. Now."

"I don't know who you think you are..."

Hunt slammed his fist into Sam's stomach. Sam bent forward, gasping, as his forehead pressed against Hunt's shoulder. "I told you who I am. Now get out of my sight. I don't want to see you again unless it's on the pitch practising. Move."

He shoved Sam away. Sam reeled around and caught himself on the table. It hurt. And he was still here. As he watched, the men stood, Skelton and Ray among them, and began to file out. Sam read the name on the back of Ray's shirt. Carling. Hunt grabbed a skinny man by the elbow as he passed. "Oi, what are you doing here, Knowles? Don't recall you could play with the grown-ups."

"Tripper is out sick, Guv." Knowles fidgeted, obviously wanting to reclaim his elbow but not daring to. "They sent me up to replace him."

"You clear it with our subs?"

"I...they told me to..."

Carling stepped up to the kid's rescue. "It were my decision, Guv. Tripper went out last night. Allergic reaction or sommat. You know how he is. And we've had Prokofiev out already, which puts Smith and Early on the pitch, so I thought it best to bring a youngster up to cover, just in case, like."

"Good thinking, Raymondo. Initiative. I like it."

"Thank you, Guv."

"Now move your arses."

"Yes, Guv."

Carling and Knowles scuttled out.

Skelton hovered alongside Hunt. "Uh, Guv?"

"What, Chris?" Hunt rolled his eyes and sighed down towards the fidgeting man.

"Uh, maybe the boss ought to see the team medic, like." He used 'like' as if he were consciously echoing Hunt's speech pattern, a baby bird learning through mimicry how to grow into a hawk. He whispered in Hunt's ear, though Sam heard every word from his position against the table. He rubbed his thigh. "They say he's got concussion," Skelton continued.

Hunt glanced at Sam. Sam stopped rubbing and glared. Hunt turned his attention back to Skelton as if he had never looked at Sam at all. "Medic's busy with Keens at the moment. Don't know what they put in the water round here. You lot are dropping like a bunch of nancy flies. Take him to see Cartwright." Gene nodded, as if that was the end of it, and then, noticing the team still hovering around the hallway, barked, "Pitch. Now!" Eleven men scattered like squirrels.

Skelton was quiet as he led Sam down a set of stairs. "I remember playing at Maine Road," Sam said.. "This is where my dad brought me, too, when I was a kid. I remember when they knocked it down."

Skelton tapped Sam's arm. "It's still open, boss." He talked to Sam as if he were crazy, or a child. Quiet, careful, and with ears wide open.

"Of course it is," Sam said, returning the tone exactly. Skelton picked up the pace to get to the nurse's office.

Cartwright was there when they arrived. "They said you'd be down. Hello, again." She smiled pleasantly.

"Hello," Sam said. He looked around. There were too many metal poky things for his tastes.

"You two know each other?" Skelton said. He evidentially had no problem with poky things as he started touching everything within reach.

"We met this morning," Cartwright said. She gently grabbed Skelton's hand and lowered it away from the shelves.

"Oh," he said.

"Chris, head out to the pitch. I'll be there in a few minutes," Sam said when it became obvious that Skelton would be perfectly happy to stay where he was.

"Right. Your kit's in the locker room." Skelton nodded with a cheerful confusion.

"My what?"

"Your kit," Cartwright said. "You can't very well play without it, can you?" She smiled again. Sam was rapidly getting the idea that she thought he was brain damaged.

"Who said I'm playing?" Sam stuck his chin out, a challenge to them both.

"Team Captain, aren't you?" Chris was still in the doorway. "How hard **did** you hit your head?" Skelton concern seemed to have blossomed into honest worry.

Sam's bravado wavered under their double stare. "I..." Hunt had said that, hadn't he? Captain and assistant manager... Sam had skipped over the captain part of it and only heard the demotion. "I haven't played in a long time."

"You played last week. It was all over the news. Your last game before you transferred. I have to say, you might have done us a favour and not done so well. Would have helped us immensely if you'd held back on one of those goals," Cartwright said.

"Naw, the boss won't ever. He's in it to win, right Boss?"

"Chris, hurry on, the others are waiting." She sounded like a mother hen, but he scuttled off with a final glance towards Sam. Once gone, Cartwright turned her attention on him completely. "Would you mind sitting up here for me?" She patted a wooden table cleared for the purpose.

He ignored the motion. "What's your name?" There was something about her that reassured him. A quiet intelligence in her eyes, perhaps. If he could get anyone to see reason, she was his best bet.

"You know my name."

"Your first name."

"It's Annie."

"I'm Sam."

"I know. I need you up here, Sam." She patted the table again.

Sam hopped up. "I don't know what's going on. I think I might be losing my mind." He squinted and leaned away as Annie shined a light in his eyes.

"Oh, you're fine. You just had a knock in the head. You haven't even got concussion. Just being a whiny baby. Probably missing your friends and all. Well, you can go round and see them tonight. They're not far away, are they?"

He pushed her prodding hand away from his neck. "I think they are very far away, Annie. I don't know if I'll ever see them again." He got up and started for the door.

"Not done with you yet," she said.

"You said I don't have concussion, what else do you need to do?"

"Sam—if you need to talk to someone..."

"Go to the club shrink, I know."

"The what?"

"Oh. Right. I guess you don't have one of those in 1973."

She patted his arm. "Go work it out on the pitch, Sam. That's where all that confusion belongs. Play ball. It makes a man feel good."

Sam snorted. "Thanks for the advice." He turned and started out. "Annie...?"

"Bottom floor, outside the door marked 'pitch'."

"Thanks."

 

As it turned out, he remembered where to go once he had started. He could not classify the feeling as he ran down the staircase, turning automatically and knowing to take the third door on the left, not the first or second. It was deja vu intermingled with experiencing something completely foreign. When he reached the door marked 'pitch', the entrance to the locker room was beside it. Inside, as promised, was a row of lockers. One had a door open, and there he found his kit. He took it out and looked at it. Blue. Good. The club colour, at least, remained the same. That was mildly comforting. He removed his jacket, shirt, and trousers. He looked down at his pants. They were florid brown boxer shorts. He stood for a moment, staring at his midsection.

The corduroy trousers he could handle, and the flowery shirt, and even the Cuban heels. But there was something disconcerting about suddenly discovering that he was wearing pants that he had never seen before. It was a violation, of a sort, though he could not think how he had been violated as he had no one to blame. He was tempted to compare it to waking up from a blackout drunk on the floor of a stranger's bedroom wearing someone else's pajamas and not knowing how he came to be undressed in the first place, but he knew it wasn't that. He should be grateful, he supposed, that his subconscious had deigned to dress him at all.

There was a jockstrap in the locker. He said a silent prayer of thanks that it was in the original packaging. He tore it open, stripped down, and put it on. It was a little snug. Low self-esteem, he wondered—his subconscious thinking he was smaller than he was. He pulled the kit shorts on as quickly as possible. The shorts—they were short. Not the thigh length he was used to, not at all. His pale as snow legs got excellent exposure in these. The shirt wasn't much different, cotton instead of mesh, a bit loose and long-sleeved, but a shirt was a shirt. He strapped the shin guards on next. They were heavier than he was used to. Socks, then boots. He hung his clothes up and closed the locker door.

How long since he had played a game? Three years, not including the five-a-side games his mum forced him to play every year at her company social. Mum, she would be around. Maybe he could... No. He couldn't.

There wasn't a damn thing he could do except what Annie said—play ball.

The pitch at least looked like a pitch. He stood on the edge of it, looking up into the empty stands. He tried to remember where he and his father had sat that day they had watched ManCity go up against United.

"You going out there or just going to stare?"

"What?" Sam looked at the player standing beside him in the doorway. "You must be Keens."

The man stuck his hand out, grinning around a mouthful of something. "Aye. Dorian."

"Doc clear you for training?"

"Right as rain." He took a bite of biscuit, which he was holding in his other hand. Sam recognised it from the old lady's tray.

"Good biscuit?"

"No one makes them like Mrs. Raimes."

"Mrs..." Something niggled at his brain. What were the chances there'd be a Raimes here? He shook the thought away. If he dwelt on it, he could have anything here, couldn't he?

"Boss?"

"All right. Go on then."

Keens ran onto the pitch. Slowly, Sam followed. The team was engaged in various stretches in front of the goal. Carling was smoking again, performing some type of acrobatic feat of bending forward while he grasped his ankle and arched it behind himself, all the while puffing on that cigarette. Skelton was jogging in place, looking as if he was trying to knock himself in the head with his knees. Sam stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled them over. They came, and as was the case with his own side, he instantly distinguished the young from the veterans by how quickly they responded. Chris and the goalie all but bounded over, then the middle few came, not dawdling, but not in so much of a hurry, which left Ray and Keens.

"Right," Sam said. "'We didn't get to do introductions earlier, so we're going to go around and you can get out your names and your positions, if you don't mind."

"Chris Skelton, winger, wingback", Skelton said. His eyes were shiny, as if he were pleased to have a task that he could do.

The middle section said their names. Sam smiled and nodded, trying to remember them, but they slid from him like sand through his fingers. The important bit was that he was learning who got what position. When it came down to it, they all had names on the backs of their shirts anyway.

"Ray Carling. Fullback," Ray said.

"You're a fullback?"

"Aye. You think something's wrong with that?"

"No. Just thought you might be a forward is all, the way you enjoy rushing people."

"I'm a fullback." Ray looked as if he would get in Sam's face again, so Sam moved on before Ray could prove Sam's point. "And you, Keens? What do you play?"

"Mid-field."

"Right. O.K. Well, I'm Sam Tyler. I'll be your team captain, and your assistant manager, I guess. I'm..." he was about to tell them where he was from and his history, but stopped. If they didn't think he was crazy before—oh hell, they definitely did. Crazy enough, then. "Glad to be here," he finished. No one looked particularly convinced. Sam cleared his throat. "Now, let's run through some exercises and we'll see if everyone is playing where they should."

A young boy ran over with a bag of balls.

"Here, sir," he said. He looked about 13 years old.

"Thanks, son. What's your name?"

"Andrew, sir. I'm on the under-14's team."

"Well done, Andrew. You helping us out today?"

"Yes, sir. The guv sent us over because I did all right in our match yesterday. I busted me opponent's head."

Sam's smile froze. "Well, Andrew, we're going to try to avoid that kind of footballing now, alright?"

The boy looked confused. He shoved the balls towards Sam. "Here you go anyway, sir."

"Thanks."

The kid trotted off and Sam dumped the balls out. "Right. Who was on goal?"

"The bloke in the goalie shirt," Ray muttered.

Sam ignored him. He addressed the goalie. "Sanders, was it?"

"I'm defense," The man who actually was Sanders said. "That's Harker."

"I'm substitute goal. Since Tripper's out sick." The man in the goalie shirt spoke.

"Thank you. Harker, position, please." Sam gestured towards the net.

Harker nodded and ran over to the goal.

"Ok, we're going to line the balls up, and if you could just queue up over here, we'll practise running and aiming. Just very simple. Run, kick, goal. Harker, you'll want to stop the ball."

"What else would he do?" said Carling.

Harker grinned. "Ready, boss." A man who ignored Carling? Sam found himself taking a liking to the keeper.

Keens raised his hand. Sam was sure he didn't want to hear what he had to say. "What?"

"This is not a realistic exercise."

"I'm sorry?"

"When are we ever going to kick a ball that is not already in motion? What's the point of this?"

It's for aim."

"So you say. But really, what's the point? The people who need to aim can do it, the rest are just there for support."

"Aren't you an attacking midfielder?"

"Yeah."

"So, then, isn't it your job to aim? At the goal?"

"This is a waste of time."

"Duly noted. End of the queue, please." Keens shuffled off.

The team queued up. Sam took up position near the end, praying that once he got to the front, he wouldn't embarrass himself. The easy exercise was more to ease himself back into play than for them. He was certain that the players could handle it. However, as they began and the first one missed, and the second tripped over the ball, and the third hit it well over the goal, he began to wonder. When, at last, it was his turn, he sailed it nicely into goal. Harker caught it easily. Keens came up next and pounded it in with a perfect left foot.

"Not bad for someone complaining so much," Sam said.

"Never said I couldn't do it." Keens ran back to the end of the queue, tossing his response over his shoulder. Andrew began running around gathering up the balls.

Sam ran them through the exercise three more times. The last two, he stood at the head of the line and offered coaching on form with varied and (mostly anticipated) effect. Finally, he gave up.

"Andrew, set the orange pylons out. We're going to do some obstacle runs."

Skittles raised his hand. "Do we have to?"

"What do you mean, 'do we have to?'"

Skittles shrugged.

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose and counted slowly from ten. "Either you feel like playing football or you don't. You are a footballer. It is your job to always feel like playing it. Acceptance is key."

The man backed off, mumbling something about nutters taking over.

"Ball." Sam held his hands out, and Harker tossed him the ball. "Right. Line up. Dribble the ball around the cones, then pass it to the next person on line. Got it?"

"Uh, boss?" This was Keens coming towards him with his hand over his stomach. "I'm not feeling so keen. You mind if I skiv off?"

"You said the doc cleared you."

"He did, but..."

"He does look a bit green. Should sit it out," Carling said.

"Carling—I said practise continues."

Ray drew himself up a bit. "Look, I'm trainer here, and I think I know this lad a bit better than someone who's just wandered over from the Reds." He turned and spat on the ground, making no question of the foul taste mentioning United had left in his mouth.

"Is it always a fight with you? Let it go.

"If he says he's not well..." Ray stood square against him.

We're doing this exercise. Keens. You're first." Sam dropped the ball at Keens' feet and stepped back. The man glared at him but began to guide the ball around the pylons. He had a light touch and moved like a dancer. Sam watched, wondering why it was always the jackasses who were the most talented. He passed the ball on to Harker, who tripped over his own feet as he rounded the first cone.

"Sorry—not used to this fieldwork."

"It's all right. Give it another go." Sam patted his shoulder.

Instead of agreeing, Harker pointed. Sam turned, following his finger as the team raced past him to the other end of the pylons.

"Right. What are you lot plotting?" Sam's words died as he trotted over and saw that they were not in a huddle, but rather bent over Keens, who was flat on the ground, gritting his teeth against convulsions that wracked his body and forced tears from his eyes.

"Chris go call the paramedics." Skelton looked up.

"The what?"

Sam yanked him away from the sight. "The... Oh, just go fetch the medic."

"Right boss." Skelton took off running.

Sam tore his shirt off and shoved two men out of the way.

"What are you doing with that?" Carling said.

"I'm going to put it in his mouth so he doesn't swallow his tongue. He's having a seizure."

"He's not. Just had too much to drink."

Keens' eyes rolled back in his head. "That look like too much to drink to you?"

"For him? Yeah."

Keens gagged.

"Fine. Give it here." Carling snatched the shirt from Sam and stuffed it in Keens's mouth.

"Don't choke him, Carling."

"I'm not. He's alright."

Carling and Sam stayed on either side of Keens's head, and after another minute he went still. Sam pulled the shirt from his mouth. No one said anything for a moment.

Then Carling opened his big mouth: "If you'd have let him sit out when he'd wanted to, we wouldn't have had any of this."

Sam got up and stood there in his vest, kit shirt crunched in his hand, and didn't answer. Keens just laid on the grass and stared up, glassy-eyed.  



	5. Life on Mars: The Football AU; Episode 1: Newcastle United

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Life on Mars. With football.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by an idea [](http://mikes-grrl.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://mikes-grrl.livejournal.com/)**mikes_grrl** put forth awhile ago wishing to see our boys recast

Title: Life on Mars: The Football AU; Episode 1: Newcastle United  
Chapter: 5/6  
Author: [](http://amproof.livejournal.com/profile)[**amproof**](http://amproof.livejournal.com/)  
Wordcount: 4724 this chapter, 24,936 overall  
Disclaimer: Life on Mars is property of Kudos. Any real persons who might appear in this series do so in fictional incarnations. Characters created for this AU are mine and are not meant to resemble real people.  
Rating: Brown Cortina overall for language, sexual situations (het and slash), moments of peril  
Notes: Inspired by an idea [](http://mikes-grrl.livejournal.com/profile)[**mikes_grrl**](http://mikes-grrl.livejournal.com/) put forth awhile ago wishing to see our boys recast  
in the world of professional soccer/football. My goal is to rewrite each episode within this world. I will be creating a lot of original characters to round out the teams, but real players may appear/garner mention, however their roles will rarely be more substantial than the real characters who are portrayed on the actual show. As much as possible, I have remained loyal to the match fixtures of the 1973-74 season, though at times plotting made that impossible.  Finally, huge thanks to my beta [](http://karaokegal.livejournal.com/profile)[**karaokegal**](http://karaokegal.livejournal.com/) and my brit-pick/footie watch/northern way explainers [](http://lady-t-220.livejournal.com/profile)[**lady_t_220**](http://lady-t-220.livejournal.com/) and [](http://siluria.livejournal.com/profile)[**siluria**](http://siluria.livejournal.com/). I'm sure I've forgotten something, so if you have questions, just ask.

Summary: It's Life on Mars. With football.

Previously: [1.1](http://amproof.livejournal.com/347064.html#cutid2) [1.2](http://amproof.livejournal.com/347212.html) [1.3](http://amproof.livejournal.com/348905.html) [1.4](http://amproof.livejournal.com/349804.html)

 

 

Carling patted Keens's head. "We'll have the doc in a minute. He'll get you checked out." He looked up at the players still hovering and glared at Sam. "Don't you have an exercise to run them through? Maybe they could practise leaping or something."

"Why would they...oh. You're being funny."

Carling remained stony-faced.

"You'll be alright, Dorian," Sam said. He thought about patting him on the head as well, but figured the gesture would not be appreciated.

"Right. The rest of you. Three laps around the track. Move."

Amid a chorus of complaints, the remaining players left the pitch and made their way to the separate track. As they left, Chris came trotting back with Hunt and a man who was probably the medic at his side. The manager was huffing from the exertion.

"What happened?" The medic asked as he hurriedly knelt beside Keens.

"He fell over, and started twitching and frothing." Carling said.

"What's the matter with him?" Hunt said.

"He was twitching and frothing." Sam repeated what Ray had said with careful enunciation in order to better aid his so-called manager's understanding of the situation. "Where I'm from, we'd call that a seizure."

"Do you want another punch?" Hunt said.

"Wouldn't want you to have to put your flask down." Sam shrugged.

"Gentlemen, please," the medic said. "We need to get him to hospital. I asked Miss Cartwright to call for an ambulance. Should be here any moment."

"He said you gave him a clean bill," Ray said. As he spoke, an ambulance pulled onto the pitch and drove towards them.

"The kind of training you lot normally do, I didn't see a problem with him coming out." The medic waved towards the ambulance. Two men climbed down from it, one seasoned, the other not so much. Both looked chuffed beyond belief to be in the heart of City. When they noticed Hunt, the younger one all but pointed excitedly.

Hunt seemed to puff up, even as he accepted the adulation as his due. He began issuing orders for them to get Keens to hospital quick as you like and have him thoroughly checked over.

They nodded eagerly, as if was the best idea they had ever heard, and one they would not have thought of on their own.

"Today, lads," Hunt roared.

The men looked more thrilled than intimidated as they raced for the stretcher. "Told off by Gene Hunt. Blimey!" the older one declared.

"I'm going with him," Ray said.

"Ray, I think you'd be better off staying here and working on your game," Sam said.

"No, you go on, Raymondo. We'll see you back here tomorrow." Hunt gave his agreement, and Carling took off without a second look at Sam. The medic hopped into the van as well.

Sam sighed. "Are you going to undermine everything I say?"

"Tyler," Hunt said. "There's been some news. Haven't told anyone else yet..." By now the drivers had Keens in the van. A moment later, it lurched forward and began its journey. Sam cringed as it wore a track on the pitch.

"What is it?"

"Call just came through. Tripper's dead."

"Do they have any idea what happened?"

"He went into a coma last night after he was admitted. They'll do a post-mortem."

"We should forfeit the match tomorrow." How easy the words came to him. Declaration of standard procedure following a tragedy. Hunt had delivered the news with a fair amount of stoicism, as if he were following a rulebook as well. Sam touched the roof of his mouth with his tongue and tasted bitterness, but that was all. Emotionally, he felt nothing. This Tripper's death didn't bring up thoughts of Mark. He had this whole world for that, this world where Mark and Maya—where no one he loved or knew--existed. There was no transference of grief, nothing in his sorrow over Mark that made him grieve for Tripper, a man he did not know. Some people, he imagined, who had lost their friend and lover, been hit by a car and blasted back in time to find that the same thing had happened in this new (old?) place would make a connection. He wasn't going to waste any time thinking about why he wasn't one of them.

Sam felt nothing. His mouth filled up with the vile taste of it until he forced himself to swallow to stop from gagging.

"He wouldn't have wanted that. I'm going to raise Harker up. He'll be goalie now." Hunt uncapped his flask. Possibly this indicated an emotion.

"Gene. I'm sorry."

Hunt stared into the stands. His nostrils flared. "You looking to get a leg over, Tyler?"

"What?" Sam stared at Hunt, who regarded him all too calmly. If a threat could be felt, it coursed from Hunt's eyes directly to Sam's stomach and turned him cold from the inside.

"I think you'll find it's a bit early in our relationship to be calling me by my Christian name."

"Didn't mean anything by it. What about Prokofiev?" Sam said. He pressed his arm against his belly. "He's out as well?"

"Stomachache, convulsions. Same as Keens. He's home resting now. Should be back next week, all goes well. Course, we thought the same about Tripper..."

A few players were wandering back onto the pitch. They had either been hiding their sprinting skills under a bush during the earlier training, or had bunked off early. Sam opted for the latter reason. He turned back to Hunt.

"Why do you think they got sick?" Sam said.

"Don't know. They'd all been to the doc for their work ups, no problems found then. You ought to go yourself."

Sam squeezed the shirt in his hand and forced himself to stand still as Hunt's judging gaze took him in from top to bottom.

"I'm feeling fine."

"If I don't find you playing up to scratch, expected scratch, you'll go on Monday. Got it?" Hunt stuffed the flask back into his pocket.

Sam nodded. "I'm sure I'll be playing above expectation for this team." Hunt's hand fell on his shoulder.

"We're eleventh in the Division. You're here to improve on that. Try not to forget."

In 2005, City was in fifth place. "It's seared onto my mind from this moment forward."

Hunt leaned in, squinting, like he wanted to look through Sam's eyes straight through to his brain. "Just how close did Cartwright examine your head?"

Sam shrugged his hand off. "Clean bill of health."

The team had reassembled. They mostly hung back, but Skelton tentatively walked towards them.

Hunt and Sam broke off and watched Skelton's slow approach. Sam was starting to understand why no one ever rushed around here. The place was a vast sucking waste of time and reason, a void of despair.

"Is Dorian going to be alright?" Skelton asked when he got near.

'He's gone to hospital. I'm sure we'll know something more by tonight," Sam said.

"When my nan went to hospital, they didn't know nothing for two weeks, waiting for the tests to come back."

"Two weeks?" Sam squinted. "That's ridiculous."

Chris shrugged. "Faster than in Surrey. They get results back in a month there, have to send away to London, and they're always backed up. My uncle's a doctor. He told me so."

"Chris, about Tripper," Sam said when Gene gave no indication that he was going to speak. "We've had some bad news."

"Get the team over," Gene interrupted. "Ought to tell them all at once." He stuck his arm up, and the remaining members raced over. They stood around Hunt and Sam, waiting.

"Just wanted you lads to know that Tripper died about thirty minutes ago. So. Do what you need to do, but tomorrow we've a match, and we're going on in honour of him. Understood?"

He waited as the men nodded. Sam found himself nodding, too.

"Harker. You'll be on goal until further notice."

"Yes, Guv."

Sam put his hand up. "If anyone needs to talk to someone, we can arrange grief counseling."

Blank stares greeted the announcement.

"Or not," Sam said. "Look, if you want to take the rest of the day off..."

Two men were walking away before he finished speaking.

"Sanders, Ratcher, get back here," Hunt said.

"You said we could do what we needed to do," Sanders protested.

"Gene, if they need some time..."

"Shut it, Tyler." Hunt met him with the same glare as the last time he'd dared use his first name. "Work it out on the pitch."

"I'm starting to think you ought to stitch that phrase onto the linens around here."

"Not a bad idea. I've got press waiting for me." Hunt palmed a cigarette. "Bloody hate this part of the job."

Sam didn't think it would do any good to tell Hunt that he knew exactly how he felt. The cigarette in Hunt's mouth flared as the flame from Hunt's lighter touched it.

"I've got things under control," Sam said.

Hunt grunted and, squaring his shoulders, marched off towards the exit.

Skelton spoke up. "Are we going to do that running at the ball again? I think I can get it this time." He pushed his hair out of his eyes.

"Yeah. Go ahead." Sam watched as Skelton ran off to set up the balls alongside Andrew. He really was an eager young man, more puppy than youth. Sam tried to think if he had ever been that way. Definitely not.

They ran through the exercise again, and then Sam split them into two teams and had them run a mini game against each other. He put himself in the roll of centre-midfielder which forced him against Carling. The man got a few good shin kicks in, but Sam largely bypassed him. He wasn't as rusty as he expected, but it still wasn't his best. He didn't score, opting instead to pass to his forwards and let them lay it in. Which they did, albeit not as often as he set them up for it. Truth be told, one of the goals could have stayed empty and made no difference. Once forty-five minutes had passed, even Sam was ready to fall down. Instead, he called the game to a halt and had the team sit down and go through a series of stretches.

This was met by yet more complaining. A few men lit up cigarettes, which they had somehow secreted within their shorts. Sam didn't want to ask exactly where. "The smoking has to stop, at least on the pitch," he said.

"You don't want us smoking on the pitch or in the building. My girl won't let me light up at home—where do you propose I enjoy a fag?" Early yelled. Sam reminded himself that the man was Prokofiev's substitute. Perhaps he didn't know Tripper, as he seemed more put out about not being allowed to smoke than about his teammate's death.

"How about the pub?" Sam said. His exasperation was beyond masking.

The entire team perked up at this and began chattering and walking away, getting up, stretching their arms over their heads and pulling their shirts off.

"Where are you going?" Sam was still in the middle of a hamstring stretch.

"Pub," Skittles said. "Like you suggested, boss."

"I didn't..." Sam sighed and followed. "Skittles, was Tripper not well-liked?"

"Liked him fine. Why?"

"None of you seem particularly put out about his dying."

"Oh. Dunno. Hasn't sunk in yet, I guess." Then, looking as if he didn't want to talk about it anymore, he took off jogging towards the building. Sam, having nothing else to do, followed. At the entrance to the locker rooms, Hunt was there. He grabbed Sam's elbow as Sam tried to squeeze between Hunt's stomach and the wall to get past.

"Going someplace in hurry, Tyler?"

"It seems we're going to the pub." Sam told him.

"That's the first sensible thing you've said since you got here."

"Thank you." He extracted his elbow from Hunt's grip "I suppose you'll be joining us?"

"No need to ask, Tyler. I'll drive."

With that, he strode grandly away. Sam went and changed amongst the other men, who were all, he was somewhat pleased to see, also wearing ridiculous underpants. Carling wore an orange vest tucked into a matching pair of briefs.

He wondered if there had been a reduction in population in the seventies, and if so, had anyone thought to blame it on the underclothes. He felt a shock of guilt at this. He shouldn't be thinking about something so frivolous, not with Maya so recently dead. Except she was not dead in this world—in this world, she didn't exist, except in Sam's memory. He tossed his shirt into a laundry hamper. Keens's saliva had dried on it, leaving small, stiff patches. Sam stripped off his sweat-damp vest, pausing as it passed over his face so he could compose himself without anyone realizing that he was shaking. She didn't exist in his other world either. She never would again. Nor would Mark, his friend. His best friend, or the closest he'd had to it.

'You alright, boss?" Chris said.

Sam finished pulling the vest off. Skelton was the only one left in the room. He was fully changed and looked at Sam with concern.

"Fine. Go on ahead. I'll catch up."

Chris nodded, and in a moment the locker room was empty save for Sam. He changed back into the clothes that he could not think of as his and sat down on the hard bench. One deep breath, two.

"You coming?" It was Hunt, wearing a camel-hair coat that reached his mid-thigh and pulling driving gloves on. Sam shook his head in wonder.

"Problem?"

"Just wondering why I'd imagine someone wearing driving gloves."

"You're a queer one, Tyler."

"I've heard that before."

'Get your clothes on. There's a bottle with my name on it."

Sam finished buttoning his shirt. He grabbed his jacket. "Ready." He followed Hunt out.

In the parking lot, Hunt made a bee-line towards a Cortina that was as much orange as it was brown and gold. "Nice car," Sam said. He walked slowly around it, reaching out to touch it."

"Oi, hands to yourself, Tyler." Hunt clearly was a man who brooked no unnecessary touching of his vehicle.

"Sorry." Sam snatched his hand away and showed Hunt his empty palm. He couldn't be sure, but for a fleeting second, Hunt looked amused.

"Get in."

The door was heavy to open, but it sprang shut at a touch once Sam was inside. Gene looked over and made a scoffing noise when Sam buckled up. "What?"

"Didn't know you were a nancy, Tyler. No wonder United wanted to be rid of you."

"I happen to think vehicle safety is very important."

Gene peeled out as they exited the parking lot. Sam grabbed the strap on the door and braced himself for a dangerous ride. Hunt, however, stopped as soon as he had started. The pub was across the street. He screeched to a halt in front of it. "We have arrived," he said, rather unnecessarily.

"You don't say."

The sarcasm went unacknowledged as Hunt got out of the car. Sam followed. The pub looked like any other—at least some things remained the same. A few of the players were there already, gathered around the dart board. Hunt went directly to the bar, and grabbed two men by the shoulder. "This is the senior club's pub, go get served down the road." The men cursed at him, but lurched towards the door. "Under 21's," Hunt said. "They haven't earned their right to drink in the company of such as me just yet."

"An honour they are no doubt up late dreaming about."

"So they should be." Hunt pounded the bar, attracting the attention of the person behind it, a black man with braided hair.

"What can I get for you, man?" he said. His accent was Rastafarian. He noticed Sam. "Who's the new one?"

"This is Sam. He's our new captain, and my manager assistant," Hunt said. He elbowed Sam. "You going to say 'hello' to Nelson or keep standing there clammed tighter than a Presbyterian's pocketbook?"

Sam tapped the bar and stared at the publican. "How'd I think you up? Don't think I've got a Rastafarian in my mind."

Nelson grinned. "You'd be surprised what a man's got in his mind. Lots of things you don't have any idea about."

Sam exhaled through a smile. "Wouldn't have believed you yesterday. Today... today is a different matter."

"Always is. What's your poison?"

"Diet Coke."

"Say what?"

Hunt and Nelson stared at him, Hunt looking ever more certain that Sam was certifiable. Sam ventured a smile that would reassure them that he was joking. A glance at Hunt proved that it had not worked. With a short sigh, Sam answered Nelson. "Sorry. Pint of bitter. Don't know where my head's at."

"Up your arse," Hunt muttered, and accepted the glass of whiskey that Nelson set in front of him. Sam took his own drink and sat on the stool beside Hunt.

"You get your head together, understand?" Hunt spoke quietly. "I can't have a nutter in charge of my team. Bad enough, the ones upstairs trying to run the place. I won't have one on the pitch as well."

"I'm sure I just need a nap."

"Got players dropping like flies..."

"Even after the doctor said there was nothing wrong with them?"

"Yeah. Gets me thinking we need to get another doctor."

"I..." Sam hesitated.

"What? Spit it out."

"It's just that I've seen this before, from where I came from."

"From United, you mean? The great and mighty United."

"Uh, yes. Look, we had some trouble with players, not us, but another club, was seeing the same thing. I lost a good mate."

Gene looked almost sympathetic—at least, he paused an extra second before taking another sip. "Figure out what it was?"

"Doping."

Gene slammed his glass down. "Well as I haven't any lady German shot-putters on my team, I'd say that's unlikely."

"You sure?"

"That I haven't any women on the team? I've not checked under their trousers."

"I'm just saying..."

"Well, you stop saying it."

"Forget about it. Stupid theory."

Gene turned around. "As if I could, now you've brought it up." He looked at Sam, disgust clearly writ on his face. "Why'd you have to do that?"

Sam shrugged. "It was on my mind. Were they good? I could tell Keens had talent, but what about Tripper and Prokofiev?"

"Yeah. They were good. Prokofiev is more talented than Keens on handling the ball, but Tripper—he was the best goalie in the league."

"I'm sorry."

They sat in silence watching the dart game in progress. Then Hunt got up, took the darts, and gave it three bulls-eyes in a row, collected winnings from the complaining men, and walked out. Sam trotted after him.

"Where am I supposed to go?"

"Home."

"Where's that?"

"I'll give you a ride back to the stadium. Cartwright can take you. She'll have it in the records where we're putting you up."

Sam backed away from the idea of spending another death defying second in Hunt's car. "I'll walk back, thanks."

Skelton stumbled out of the pub. He bumped into Sam, hiccuped, and swayed. "Guv? Boss?"

"Go home, Chris," Hunt said. "We'll get news on Keens tomorrow. Don't worry."

"I won't, Guv." He smiled. "He'll be alright. Like a spring he is, bouncing back."

"Count on it." Hunt closed the car door and revved it up.

"He's something," Sam said.

"He sure is." The admiration dripped from the young man.. "Shall I walk you back?"

"I think I'd be the one walking you." Sam caught Skelton's elbow to steady him. "Is there someone who can take you home?"

"Bus." He gestured down the road. "I'm alright."

"Chris, go back inside and get someone to walk you down there."

"Right, boss." Skelton stumbled forward, heading for the road.

"Chris. In the pub. Please." Sam still had a grip on him and used the leverage of his weight to angle Chris towards the door. He opened it and dropped Skelton inside. No one noticed, but they would once leaving time came.

Sam set off. He raced across the road, avoiding traffic that was heavy with lorries doing their early morning or late night runs. The staff entrance to the stadium was still open for some reason. At home, or in current time, or however he should think of it, it would have been locked, always. At City of Manchester Stadium only five people, including Sam, had codes to get into the building. But here the door was propped open with a little wedge of wood. He went in.

He stood in the empty hallway and called for Annie.

"Coming." her voice wafting down the hall had a girlish lilt, and for a moment he thought it was Maya. He closed his eyes and _felt her_ , her hands on his face, breath against his ear. But soon Annie came, with a man trotting beside her. "Yes?"

"Hunt said you might show me where I'm staying. I'm not sure where to go."

She nodded. "Sure."

The man at her shoulder extended a hand. "Hello, I'm Neal."

"Nice to meet you." The man had odd eyes and looked at Sam as if he were something foreign. Sam supposed that he was.

“Neal, I'll see you later on. I'm just going to show Sam home. He's new."

"Oh." Neal nodded as if this meant something.

Annie showed Sam out to her car. It was far more practical than Hunt's and she, thankfully, was a far more reasonable driver, but even she did not wear her seatbelt. She stopped at a block of flats a few streets from the stadium. He waited for Annie to tell him which one it was. She pulled out a key for the building and then proceeded into the first door on the left. Sam stood in the doorway and stared. It was the smallest, ugliest room he had ever seen.

"I make an assistant manager's and captain's salary and this is where I live?"

"Better than my place," Annie said. "Be happy with it. We got it on short notice. Nobody knew you were coming until just recently. Not that we're complaining, mind. Glad to have you."

Sam wandered around the flat, which basically involved standing in one spot and rotating. "I've had closets bigger than this."

"Oh, it's not so bad."

"No, Annie, it really is." He sighed. "I've been hit by a car."

"But you're all right."

"No. I am not. This is why I’m here. I was hit by a car, and now I've been transported back in time. Or I'm in a coma. Or on drugs, probably pain killing drugs due to being hit by a car. In any case, you are not here. Nor am I, nor any one."

"Sam. I'm here. I promise." She took his hand and raised it to her chest. "Feel that? That's a heart."

A soft, steady beat met his fingers. He closed his eyes, absorbing it, and letting it ground him. "I feel it," Sam said. How long it had been since he'd touched a breast. How soft, how odd it felt now. He pressed the soft, pliable tissue.

"There you go." She pushed his hand away. "You get some sleep now. You lads have a lot to do, big match tomorrow."

"Who are we playing?"

"Newcastle United of course. Don't you follow the schedule?"

"I was 4 in 1973. Don't exactly remember the football schedule." He forced a smile and tried to keep his expression clear of the nausea he felt at the mention of that team.

'We'll get you a copy tomorrow. Sam, it's not my place to say, I know, but Ray needs to come out of the defense. He's no fullback. You want him on attack."

"You know something about football."

"My dad and brother played professional. I picked some things up, grew up around it. You're surprised?"

"No. It's just..."

"Women don't talk much about it, aren't interested in it? Well, keep it quiet, alright? Don't want a hard time about it."

"I won't tell a soul." He smiled.

She gestured to the door. "I've got to get back. Neal's waiting."

"He's your boyfriend?"

"My ex. He's still a friend though, and I have promised to meet him, so... He is a psychologist, so if you want to talk to a professional..."

"That's all right."

"Try not to do anything crazy tonight. Just stay in and sleep, OK?"

"OK."

After she went, he undressed to his undershirt and shorts. He opened the closet, hoping for clothes, but it was empty. Of all the things to not imagine.... He hung his clothes up for the next day and dropped into the bed. A spring dug into his back. He tried to arrange himself so it pressed into a fatty part of his body, but he didn't really have one, even after packing on a few pounds after Mark's transferring. It was going to be a long night. He finally slept, after an hour or so of tossing and turning. It was fitful, this sleep, with dreams he didn't care to remember. At some point, he heard voices. He did not remember turning the television on, though he used to have a habit of leaving it on at night to keep himself company. He rolled over and squinted at it. Two men were sitting at a desk discussing sports.

"Manchester City have to get a result in their match against Newcastle United tomorrow. There's no other way to put it."

"Quite right, Tom, and we'll point out that this marks Sam Tyler's debut as captain, following his transfer just a few days ago from Manchester United."

"A transfer that came awfully sudden to those of us who follow such things, Ed."

"Took us all by surprise. But the thing to remember is that Tyler needs to have all his responses queued up to win."

"No pressure or anything," Sam mumbled, almost asleep again.

"Absolutely. He'll never wake up if his mental reflexes are lacking," the one called Tom said.

"Bright and aware, that's the key to finding his way out of the mess he's in."

"Sam, can you hear me?" Ed snapped his fingers.

Suddenly, Sam was wide awake. He slid out of bed head first and landed in a heap in front of the television. "I'm here." He banged on the screen. Tom and Ed leaned forward. Tom kept his hands folded on the desk, but Ed was still snapping.

"Sam. It's very important that you hold on. We are doing all we can for you," Tom said.

"I am. I mean, I will." His face was almost pressed to the glass. The static coming off it tingled against his cheeks.

The snapping stopped. Sam leaned back so he could see the picture again. Tom now had his hand over Ed's, holding it down. Ed looked embarrassed.

"We know you’ll do all you can to help us help you," Tom said.

"Yes. Yes." Sam patted the set. He could do that. If they wanted American-style psychobabble, they'd get it. Anything, if it got him out of this shag-carpeted, floral-papered hell hole.

"Kickoff is at one p.m. tomorrow. We'll have highlights post-match," Ed said. "See you then."

"Guys. What are you doing? Keep talking to me." Sam banged the set. "I'm still here!"

Tom and Ed were sharing a joke and laughing in the way of newsmen filling time while the credits ran.

"Don't," Sam said. "Please. Come back. Please." He sat back on his feet, hands pressed to either side of the set. "I'm with BUPA," he said in a small, quiet voice.

An advert came on, a pair of women in a shop. They didn't seem interested in talking to him. There was a far more exciting jumper sale on.

Sam clicked the television off. He went back to bed. He pulled the covers around his chin and stared at the ceiling. He resolved to stay awake for the rest of the night. He felt a tear roll down his cheek. He was empty. No. Terrified.  



	6. Life on Mars: The Football AU; Episode 1: Newcastle United

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Life on Mars. With football.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by an idea [](http://mikes-grrl.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://mikes-grrl.livejournal.com/)**mikes_grrl** put forth awhile ago wishing to see our boys recast

Title: Life on Mars: The Football AU; Episode 1: Newcastle United  
Chapter: 6/6  
Author: [](http://amproof.livejournal.com/profile)[**amproof**](http://amproof.livejournal.com/)  
Wordcount: 4960 this chapter, 24,936 overall  
Disclaimer: Life on Mars is property of Kudos. Any real persons who might appear in this series do so in fictional incarnations. Characters created for this AU are mine and are not meant to resemble real people.  
Rating: Brown Cortina overall for language, sexual situations (het and slash), moments of peril  
Notes: Inspired by an idea [](http://mikes-grrl.livejournal.com/profile)[**mikes_grrl**](http://mikes-grrl.livejournal.com/) put forth awhile ago wishing to see our boys recast  
in the world of professional soccer/football. My goal is to rewrite each episode within this world. I will be creating a lot of original characters to round out the teams, but real players may appear/garner mention, however their roles will rarely be more substantial than the real characters who are portrayed on the actual show. As much as possible, I have remained loyal to the match fixtures of the 1973-74 season, though at times plotting made that impossible.  Finally, huge thanks to my beta [](http://karaokegal.livejournal.com/profile)[**karaokegal**](http://karaokegal.livejournal.com/) and my brit-pick/footie watch/northern way explainers [](http://lady-t-220.livejournal.com/profile)[**lady_t_220**](http://lady-t-220.livejournal.com/) and [](http://siluria.livejournal.com/profile)[**siluria**](http://siluria.livejournal.com/). I'm sure I've forgotten something, so if you have questions, just ask.

Summary: It's Life on Mars. With football.

Previously: [1.1](http://amproof.livejournal.com/347064.html#cutid2) [1.2](http://amproof.livejournal.com/347212.html) [1.3](http://amproof.livejournal.com/348905.html) [1.4](http://amproof.livejournal.com/349804.html) [1.5](http://amproof.livejournal.com/351774.html)

In the morning, Sam arrived at the stadium after the team was out doing warm ups. Hunt all but met him at the door.

"Delighted you decided to honour us with your presence, Tyler."

"Nowhere else to go," Sam said.

"Well, that's a reflection on your sad life, I'd wager."

"Care for a biscuit, gents?"

Like a specter turning up without warning, there was Mrs. Raimes with her tray.

"Thanks, love." Hunt picked one up and bit into it.

"What's got you lads down today?"

"You haven't heard?" Hunt said. "Young Tripper died. Keens is in hospital. Prokofiev is felled at home." He finished off the biscuit and reached for another.

"Such a good boy, Tripper. He loved me biscuits." Mrs. Raimes said. Sam picked up one and sniffed it. Hunt and Mrs. Raimes looked at him, Hunt as if awaiting another oddball pronouncement, and Mrs. Raimes with a smile of pleasant expectation.

"I saw Keens eating one yesterday." Sam put the one he had picked up back on the tray. A connection? Could it be the biscuits? He glanced at Hunt to check if he was having the same thought and noticed that Hunt was looking at Mrs. Raimes in a slightly different way.

"Mrs. Raimes, have you changed your recipe lately?" Hunt said.

"Ooh, I've added a bit of walnut dust. For the flavor. Do you like it?"

"It's lovely." Hunt smiled, snatched up three more and at the same time he grabbed Sam's elbow and marched him off.

"I think she's poisoning the players," Sam said once they were clear.

"Mrs. Raimes has been passing out biscuits since before you were born, I'd wager. She's not poisoning players." He paused. "Least, not on purpose. Tripper had bad allergies to nuts. Was always asking what was in stuff before he ate it. If he was accustomed to Mrs. Raimes' biscuits, then he wouldn't have asked if she'd changed the recipe. She's been pushing the same kind at us for the ten years I've been here. Of all the times to get experimental." He paused and turned one of the biscuits over as if the answer was on its other side. "Do you suppose I've got three players with nut allergies?"

Sam shifted away from Hunt's grip. "Allergies strong enough to kill them from trace amounts? Not very likely. Keens' reaction—that could have been from an allergy, but it was awfully delayed. And from what you've said about Prokofiev, that sounds like flu."

Hunt shook his head, clearly at a loss. "No more biscuits until we get this sorted." He punctuated the statement by shoving another into his mouth.

"That what you call 'no more'?"

"I'm not going to be killed by anything I put in my mouth.."

Sam snatched the last biscuit out of Hunt's hand and tossed it into a bin. "Just until we figure out what's going on."

"Suit yourself."

"I think that's a good idea. I should be on the pitch warming up for the match."

Hunt nodded sharply, swiftly adjusting to the business of the game. "I'm down three players. Counting on you, Tyler. Get us a result."

"I'll do my best." He hurried past Hunt to get to the locker room. The others were there already, changed and waiting. Harker, Sanders and Ratcher sat in a huddle. Carling and Early headed a ball back and forth over them. Sam ducked through to his locker. Once he was changed, they headed out to the pitch for warm-ups. The spectators were starting to fill the seats, and they shouted down encouragement. Sam sat on the ground, one leg stretched in front of himself and one bent behind. He put his forehead on his knee. Sam glanced over at Carling. It would take a hell of a lot of cheering to get Carling in the same position. He was bent forward, hands dangling down in what Sam guessed was an attempt at touching his toes. Catching Sam staring at him, Ray smacked his gum, which had taken the place of the usual cigarette.

"You're more bendy than a tart, Boss."

The players within earshot laughed. Sam switched legs. "Bet you'd know, Carling."

"He sure would," said Early. He and Carling shared a high five. Sam shifted around so he didn't have to look at them. There was no greater distraction to a pre-match mindset than idiocy.

The ref blew a whistle. Players jogged to their positions. Sam took his place standing in the middle of City's half. Newcastle won the coin toss for possession. Under the roar of the crowd, play began.

Despite the stretching, Sam's knees started hurting a quarter of the way through the match. He slowed down and let a few passes by that once he would have reached. He was breathing hard coming up to the half and collapsed on the bench once time was called. He forced himself up, though, to do the pep talk. "There's still hope, lads. We're wearing them down."

"More like they're wearing us down." Carling said.

"We will not lose to the Toon." Sam bashed his hand against the locker. Newcastle had stolen Mark and Maya from him. Winning mattered more than any of these drooling Neanderthals around him could know. A few of the men who were not paying attention jumped.

"Think we might," Ratcher said.

"Fuck," Sam grabbed a towel and wiped his neck, scrubbing away sweat. The frustration stubbornly remained. "Right. Get out there. Try not to foul. We don't need to lose any other players."

At the next whistle, the Magpies grabbed possession and kept it right through two goals. Skelton managed to get one in before the whistle blew. The Toon Army were a sight in themselves, waving signs. One in particular distracted Sam enough that he let an opposing winger cross the ball in front of him. "Hang in there, Sam," it said. But when he looked again, it read 'Go Magpies'.

The home crowd chanted "City, City" over and over, with three sharp claps between one repetition and the next, until it filled the stadium like a heart beat. It became a buzzing that turned mechanical, like the beep of a medical radar. Sam clapped his hands over his ears and the sound filled his head. In that moment, Sam saw players leaping on each other and supporters waving. Some part of him understood that another goal had been scored, but he heard nothing but that strong, steady beep. His stomach roiled. He became lightheaded. If he could sit, only for a moment...

Someone behind Newcastle's net unfurled a banner that said, "Wake up, Sam."

Sam bent over and vomited. The beeping faded out, and he heard the cheers and chanting again. He wiped his mouth, ignoring the looks of disgust from the players around him, and waited out the final whistle, which came a moment later. He trudged off the pitch as the Toon Army began trying out their new chant about him.

Carling shoved past Sam. "We lost," he said. His expression added 'Thanks to you'.

"Yes, Carling, it's all my fault," Sam said.

Carling looked surprised, then nodded. Sam turned away. There was no point in wasting sarcasm on the man.

"Interesting method of play, Tyler." Hunt was scowling as usual. "Wipe your mouth out and go shake hands."

He obeyed as Hunt moved up to greet the opposite manager. Hands were shook; a few of Newcastle's players teased Sam about his final display, which he took with a pasted on smile.

The locker room was silent as they changed. "See you all here tomorrow, eight a.m.," Sam said. Slamming metal doors gave him his response. He swallowed a sigh and finished dressing. His head was still spinning. Had he really heard _beeping_? Maybe it was dehydration. He'd had water before and during the match, but if this whole world was a construct, then was he really drinking when he thought he was? He went out and found Hunt, who, as usual, was waiting for him. The man seemed to materialise outside any door Sam opened.

"I think I might see the doctor after all," Sam said. "Could be I do need checking over."

"I'll agree you need something. Come on. I'll walk you down." He started towards the stairs.

"You don't have to do that."

Hunt turned around so he was walking backwards. "I am granting you the privilege of my extended presence."

"Right. Thank you." Sam shoved his hands in his pockets and followed.  
They didn't say much on the walk down. Sam paused at the door that said Physician and, beneath it, Edward Kramer, M.D. "Kramer?"

"What?" Hunt said. "You met him yesterday. Came out on the pitch to attend to Keens? Remember?"

"Didn't know his name."

"There a problem?"

"No. No problem." He stared at the name. First Mrs. Raimes, and now Kramer in this world. It was too much to be a coincidence, wasn't it?

Hunt moved to open the door.

"You're not coming in with me, are you?"

"I look like your mum?"

"Nowhere near."

"Then get in there." Hunt waited outside as Sam knocked and went in. He looked at the club doctor with new eyes. He hadn't seen Kramer in 2005, but from Anders's description, subtract thirty years and the age would be about right. The doctor had his son with him, or a child Sam assumed to be his son. The boy was playing with a toy car in a chair shoved back against the desk.

"Thought I'd be seeing you down here, Sam. Put your jacket on the chair, there. Then hop up on the bench. We'll have you right as rain in a moment, son. Roll up your sleeve for me, will you?"

"So you heard about my debut, huh?" Sam tried not to bristle at being called 'son' by someone roughly his own age if not younger.

Sam obeyed as Kramer wrapped a blood pressure band around his arm. "Saw it. You're a good footballer in general, aren't you?"

"I suppose so."

"Now, now. No need to be modest. I've seen your work. Relax." He pumped the rubber bulb and the band squeezed Sam's arm.

"Blood pressure's fine. You still feel woozy?"

"A little."

"Mm." Kramer pulled down a small bottle, glanced at Sam, and then selected a different one. "You're quite the catch for City." He poked a syringe into the bottle, pulled back the plunger and extracted it. Then he turned to Sam with a gentle smile as he held the syringe up. A drop of liquid sat on the end of the needle. "Big future ahead of you, I should imagine."

"That's what they keep telling me. What's that for?" He nodded towards the syringe.

"Just a little something to help with the nausea." Kramer held Sam's wrist with his thumb and forefinger and pulled his arm forward. Sam tugged it back.

"I don't need anything. I just had a headache."

"Now, Sam, don't be difficult. The others don't complain." The doctor tutted at him. Sam pulled his arm away and held it against his chest.

"Do you play, yourself?"

"Not since I was a boy. Used to fancy myself quite the player, but alas, wasn't to be," Kramer said cheerfully, as if Sam's attempt to stall him was no bother at all.

"He was great," the boy said. He looked up from his cars. "Only he hurt his knee real bad."

"He did?" Sam said.

"Rather badly. If not for that I wouldn't be here, so no complaints," Kramer said. "And you," he shook a finger in mock sternness, "need to stop trying to distract me from helping you."

"I'm sorry, I don't want a shot. I'm sure a cuppa and a night in will do me fine."

Kramer's eyes narrowed, and his lips curled sympathetically. "Is it the needle scaring you, son? There, there. Be a man about it. My little friend here takes shots without complaining, don't you, Colin?"

The boy looked at Sam with wide, eager-to-please eyes, and nodded.

"Colin?" Sam said. "Colin Raimes?" The hair was the same, texture of straw, lightly ginger, and growing in tight curls. The pattern of freckles had not changed either. He was face to face with Mark's killer. His breath caught in his throat as he stared at the boy.

"Yeah," Kramer said. "You've met his nan, no doubt. Colin likes to come down here with me. He thinks it's boring up there pushing biscuits around. Right, Colin?"

"Yeah?" Colin said. His voice was a whisper. "I know you, mister?"

Sam was still staring.

Kramer used Sam's distraction to his advantage, and Sam snapped his attention back to the doctor as his sleeve was pushed up to expose his bicep. "Hold your sleeve there." When Sam did not move, Kramer reached around for Sam's other hand and put it where he wanted it.

"Colin was six in 1973," Sam didn't intend for the others to hear his thought process, but Colin's head whipped around.

"I'm seven," he protested.

"Too young to cause what's been happening." Sam paused. Kramer seemed not to be listening as he faced Sam with the full syringe. "Ready, son?"

"Colin, do you know that players have been getting sick?" Sam pushed against Kramer's chest to hold him off.

"Yes," Colin said.

"Is it right after they've been to see Dr. Kramer?"

Colin nodded.

"What are you saying, Mr. Tyler?" Kramer said, suddenly switching to the formal.

"Three very good players became ill right after seeing you," Sam said. "Keens went to see you with a complaint and you gave him a clean bill. What did you do? Inject him with something that you knew would cause him to have a seizure once his heart rate was at a certain point? What about Tripper? Prokofiev? Did you give them something as well?" Sam slid off the cushioned dais and backed towards the door. "Did you give them what you're trying to give me?"

"Tripper never saw me. You can check the records."

"I'll have you stopped. I'll see to it. Colin, come with me." He gestured at the boy, who blinked at him and stayed in his chair.

"Colin. Now."

Kramer smiled. "Sam. Colin is like a younger brother to me. He's not going anywhere with you. Now sit back down. We can't have you fainting again."

Sam reached the chair where he had draped his jacket. He picked it up. "I think we are through here." He had one arm in when Kramer shoved him. He fell against the wall. Kramer yanked his sleeve up, and drove the needle in. Sam yelled and shoved him away before the plunger could be pushed down. The syringe bobbled in his arm. For a moment, they stared at each other.

Then Colin began to cry. Large, silent tears dropped down his cheeks. Kramer started for Sam again. Sam scrambled to get up and tripped over his feet. He fell flat on his face. He twisted around, yanked the syringe out and threw it across the room. Kramer grabbed him by the neck and pulled.

"Get off me." Sam yelled as loudly as he could. He clawed against Kramer's hands as Kramer began to drag him across the floor.

"Colin, get another bottle down, the number seven."

Sam did not know what number seven was, but he did know that the drug Kramer had tried to give him was a three.

"You're making a mistake," Sam said. He struggled against Kramer's grip. "I'm not the best player. You're wasting your time on me."

Where was Gene? Sam hated to think what normally went on if the ruckus they were making had not brought him bursting in.

"You're special, Sam. I can feel it in you." Kramer yanked him up. "You do a discredit to yourself."

"I'm not, really. Colin, go get help." Sam's feet scrambled against the floor, but he could not find purchase. "Please."

Colin blinked. Sam was beginning to think the boy was slow. He tried another tactic. "Colin...I need you to open the door. It's someone else's turn. Open the door for the next person." Colin got up and started for the door.

"Good boy, Colin. That's it," Sam said.

Colin opened the door and stuck his head out. "Next?" he said in his whisper of a voice.

Hunt soon filled the doorway. He looked expressionlessly at Sam and Kramer. Then, in a movement that should have been too quick for a man of his size, he was standing beside them, and Kramer was on the floor on the other side of the dais rubbing his head.

"Hunt, you don't know what you're doing," Kramer said.

Hunt pulled Sam up by his sore arm. Sam winced. "He's the one responsible for our players getting sick." He pointed at the now broken syringe. "Because he couldn't live up to his dream." He turned his head and spat bile. "Most people reassess. They don't go insane with it."

Hunt sniffed disdainfully and turned to look at the doctor. "That so, Kramer?"

Kramer had recovered and was standing, wisely keeping the dais between himself and Hunt.

"You'll face the Football Association for this, and the police," Hunt said.

"Fine." Kramer slid away as Hunt crossed his arms and scowled.

"Come along, Colin." Kramer held his hand out for the boy.

"Where do you think you're going? You'll stay here until the police come." Sam moved to block the door.

"Like hell." Kramer knocked past him and took off down the hallway.

"Fuck." Hunt grabbed the phone from the wall beside the door. "Security? Our medic is attempting to leave the building. Stop him and phone the police." He hung up and turned to Sam, who was standing with Colin centered in front of him, hands on his shoulders as if they were posing for a photo.

They were silent for a moment, the two men regarding the boy, and the boy staring at each of them.

"Take the boy back to his gran," Hunt said.

"He needs a new role model so he won't grow up like that." Sam pointed at the door. "We're going to give him one."

"We are? You advocating starting a nursery?"

"I want you to find him a mentor out of the under 17s. Must be one of those kids needs something to do. What about that Andrew?"

"You sure you don't want to handle it yourself? You seem taken with the lad."

"Hardly. Just trying to make sure he doesn't grow up and help Kramer kill my best player."

Sam ignored Hunt's confused grunt and walked out, leaving Hunt and Colin behind.

He found himself back in conference room. The smudge where his body had hit the chalkboard was still on it, obscuring the plays. He stood, rubbing a phantom pain from his shoulder until he sensed someone behind him and turned to see Hunt. "The police took Kramer. Called the FA. You did good, Tyler."

"He can't practice again. He should have his medical license revoked. Otherwise he'll do it again. Once Raimes is managing Newcastle, they'll do it together."

"Tyler, out of consideration of the fact that you are a blooming lunatic, and that I would have to put you off the team if anyone came along and asked if you were, I have, from the kindness of my heart, tuned out your previous speech."

"Medical license. Revoked."

"He will, but he could apply to get it back in time."

"How much time?"

"Thirty years, maybe less," Hunt said.

"What did you say?" Sam began the calculations in his head.

"Thirty years. Unless--"

"Unless what?"

"Unless we can prove that Tripper's death is due to him."

"It's not. He had an allergic reaction to a biscuit."

"No one else knows."

"The doctors at the hospital?"

"I can make things happen, Sam." Hunt shrugged. "Your choice."

"Let me think about it."

"Don't leave it too long."

"Give me two minutes, will you?" Sam snapped. "We're talking about someone's life, here."

"Two minutes." He left the room. Sam sat on the edge of the desk and thought it out. If Kramer lost his license, forever, he wouldn't be the doctor for Mark's last examination. If he wasn't the doctor, Mark would still be alive. But there was the Colin factor, too, and he'd taken care of that, hadn't he? Sam had no desire to see the boy again, but he trusted Hunt to find him a good match in an older boy to mentor him.

Everything in his system told him it was wrong, but his heart told him it was right. He almost smiled. What would Mark say to that? Finally letting his heart lead.

His two minutes were up. Hunt appeared in the doorway. "Well?"

"Do it," Sam said.

"You're sure?"

"It's preemptive. He's going to cause great harm to someone eventually. Why not stop him now?"

Gene nodded sharply. "It's done."

"O.K."

"You alright?"

"Yes."

"Good. Now get your arse out on the pitch. You played like a big girl today. Grab Skelton and practise some goal shots."

Sam nodded. "Right. See you later." He started out, and paused. "Hunt..."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"'That’s what I thought. Get moving."

"Yes... Guv." Sam held out his hand.

Hunt nodded. His expression was as self-entitled as ever. But he shook Sam's hand, and for a moment, when his eyes met Sam's, he seemed to peer right through him. "Good job with Kramer, Tyler."

Perhaps it was the concession in acknowledging that Hunt held the rank that Sam had worked so hard for, but a bit of the heaviness lifted from Sam's mind. It was that, he told himself, and not pride for earning a word of praise from Hunt making him feel this lightness.

He passed the canteen on his way out. It was empty, apart from a woman standing at the ready behind a row of institutional serving trays. He walked in. "What's good today?"

She smiled, as if embarrassed over the state of things. "Not much to be honest. You might try the porridge." She lifted a long-handled metal spoon which dripped with a tan glob.

"Think I'll pass. How about a tea?"

"That I can do." She lifted a white mug from a rack behind her. "You're the new lad, aren't you?"

"Haven't been called that for awhile. I'm Sam."

"Gwen. Good to meet you, Sam. You going to turn the club around are you?"

"I'm told that's the idea."

"So where you from, then?"

"Actually, Gwen, I'm from someplace pretty far away, and I'm hoping to get back there soon."

She handed him the tea. "Oo, I'm sure you will dear, you just have to keep believing. Her hand closed over Sam's as he accepted the mug. "It's about taking the definitive step, dear. Your Maya is counting on you."

"Yes, she's..." He paused. "How did you know about Maya?"

She smiled. "Your mobile hasn't stopped ringing, Sam. All your friends are waiting for you."

Sam set the mug down. "You're right. I'm going to do it, Gwen. The definitive step." He backed out of the room, bumping into tables on his way, but never taking his eyes from Gwen.

"Sam!" He turned and saw Annie coming towards him with Neal.

"What?"

"You remember Neal? I thought you two should talk."

Sam pumped Neal's hand. "Can't talk now. Have to take the definitive step."

"The what?" Neal said.

Sam clapped them both on the shoulder and took off running. He ran as fast as he could, up the stairs. He was out of breath when he burst onto the roof, and stopped to bend forward with his hands on his knees, gasping. He stood, finally, and looked around. It was beautiful up top. So near the clouds, he could almost reach out and touch them. He strolled to the edge, in no hurry now that he knew what he had to do. He went right up to it and looked down. A few cars drove slowly by. They looked like toys from this distance He could see the junior players practicing on their field.

"I'm coming home." He shouted into the wind, and it answered back by whipping his cheeks. A rush of happiness soared over him. He stepped forward.

"Sam!" A shout from behind, and he froze, one foot hovering over the empty air.

He turned. Annie was charging towards him. She grabbed his arm. He smiled at her. "Annie, it's not the best time."

"Gwen told me everything. Sam, come away from there." She tugged him gently.

"It's alright, Annie. I know what I'm doing." He gestured towards the edge. "Every thing's fine."

"Sam, I told Gwen what you told me. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have. She was only joking around. Don't jump."

Sam tapped his head. "Nice try, Annie, but I know what I have to do. Take the definitive step." He made a leaping motion with his hands. "It's been nice knowing you, Annie, but it's time I got home."

"Sam, please!" She grabbed his hand. He gazed at her, wild-eyed and grinning. "You don't want to do this."

Sam heard someone shouting. He looked over the edge and saw a speck of waving arms. "Is that Neal down there?"

"He's afraid of heights. He didn't want to come up."

"Oh."

"Sam. Come away from the edge."

"Unless you want to come along, Annie, you'd best let go."

Her grip remained firm. Granules of something rubbed against his hand.

"Annie, what's on your hand?"

"Sand. I grabbed the fire bucket on the way up the stairs."

He faltered. "You did?"

"Yes. Now why would you imagine something like that?"

He shrugged, as if all the energy had gone from him. She slowly released him. They stood, he looking up, she looking at him. His smile returned, stronger. "The human brain is an amazing thing. It can think up any number of things."

"Sam?"

He took the definitive step. Her screams filled his ears, and the wind replaced them, and he flew.

_Sam? I don't know if you can hear me. It's Anders. I wanted you to know that Mark's alright. It was an error, just a stupid error. Press picked it up before anyone could correct it, and then your accident happened... Anyway. He's going to be fine. And so are you. Wake up, Sam._

The voices, Annie's and Anders, congealed as he dropped, caught up in the air that whooshed past his ears into a single discordant note. He did not feel himself land, but rather recognised it when the sound again divided into distinct voices. He felt his lips part in a smile before he realised he was happy. He had done it. Something poked his shoulders and he opened his eyes. A blur hovered over him in the shape of a head and shoulders. He blinked. The blur came into focus and stared down at him looking bright and hopeful.

"Boss? You all right?"

His mother had never called him 'boss'. Sam worked his eyes open and saw Skelton sitting next to him. He looked around. He seemed to be on a cot in the locker room. Hunt was sitting next to Skelton, smoking and looking bored.

Hunt blew smoke over him. "I don't take kindly to someone trying to throw my people off roofs, just for your future edification."

"I wasn't trying to throw Annie off."

"Trying to throw yourself off, though, weren't you?"

"Thought I succeeded. Why am I still here? I shouldn't be here." He felt desperate, ragged. It had all been a lie. Hunt seemed even more real than before. Sam's chest tightened as he was grabbed and hauled up to stare into furious green eyes. Definitely real.

"Takes more than jumping off a roof to get away from me, you poncey tosser."

Gene dropped him. He landed hard, on his arse and elbows on the floor.

"He's not dead, Gene."

"What?"

"I saved him. I think... I think I saved him by stopping Kramer. But what if I didn't? If I stopped Kramer, Mark shouldn't have been in a coma at all, so why did Anders say he was? I have to get back. I have to get back and fix it. He could still be dead. He could still..." Sam babbled without awareness as he sat up and clawed Hunt's arms in desperation, struggling for something to hold onto. Hunt grabbed him, finally, and lifted him onto the bench.

"People die, Sam." Was that gentleness in Hunt's tone? "Pick up your jacket. I'm taking you down the pub." He nudged it towards Sam.

Sam picked the jacket up and squeezed it. It felt soft and made him want to sleep again.  
He was still here; Maya and Mark were probably still dead. What use was it now? Hunt grabbed his wrist.

"Put a move on. You've earned the privilege of buying me a double shot of single malt for scaring me out of my bloody wits."

Sam lacked the strength to nod. His chin dropped to his chest. "Sorry, Guv." Hunt hoisted him up by the elbow.

"Come on."

Once they were outside, Sam looked up towards the roof. He had been free, standing up there. He felt Hunt's presence beside him. "I will get home, Guv. I'm going to find a way. I don't care how long it takes. I'll do it."

"Tyler, I'll be happy to loan you the bus fare." Hunt's fingers on his elbow left no room for argument, and Sam was pulled towards the Cortina.

The world was full of 'definitive steps'. All it took was finding the right one.

The End

Look for Episode Two at the beginning of August.

Thanks so much for reading Episode One.


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